


By Love or By Fear

by Plenoptic



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: F/M, Historical, M/M, Volpelli, sex so much sex, young!Niccolo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-05
Updated: 2015-02-22
Packaged: 2018-03-05 13:09:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 24,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3121343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Plenoptic/pseuds/Plenoptic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Volpe likes possessing pretty things. Niccolo isn't interested in being collected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. On Risk and Ambition

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "All courses of action are risky, so prudence is not in avoiding danger (it's impossible), but calculating risk and acting decisively. Make mistakes of ambition and not mistakes of sloth. Develop the strength to do bold things, not the strength to suffer."
> 
> -The Prince, Chapter III: Of Mixed Princedoms

“Why do I have to come?” Volpe didn’t try to keep the whine from his voice. He was damn unhappy about this little trip, damn unhappy indeed. Paola just smiled over her shoulder at him in that knowing way, demure and lovely.

“Because you are one of us, Gilberto, whether you like it or not. And I think you’ll like our newest recruit.”

Volpe grumbled and folded his arms over his chest. He disliked being out in the daytime; the sun was too hot, there were too many people, and he felt exposed on top of it all. Firenze was bustling, a hive of activity. A few dirty children sprinted by, red-faced and shouting with laughter, dodging around Volpe’s legs and splashing him with a puddle that was just clinging to life in the scorching heat.

“Here we are.” Paola led him up the walk of a sweet little palazzo. “If I’m not mistaken, he’ll be—yes, there. Bernardo!”

She waved, and led Volpe toward a garden just behind the stone wall. An older man was clambering to his feet, muttering curses at a stubborn weed as he wiped his dirty hands on his tunic.

“Paola, darling, welcome.” He grasped her elbows and kissed her twice on both cheeks, smiling widely. He was a slim man save for his rounded belly above his belt, probably born entirely of too many glasses of wine. His peppered black hair was swept back off his high forehead, exposing shrewd, narrow features. “And who is this?”

“He prefers to go by la Volpe.”

The thief nodded, and grunted in protest when he was pulled in for a back-breaking hug.

“Bernardo di Buoninsegna dei Machiavelli,” the older man said, stepping back and offering them a dramatic bow with a chuckle. “God, Paola, how long has it been?”

“Years,” she said, accepting the hand he offered and letting him lead her toward the palazzo. “Since the… since Giovanni died.”

Bernardo hummed and crossed himself. “God rest his soul. Best man I’ve ever known, Auditore.” He chuckled. “Always let me borrow too much money, though, the cad. La Volpe, did you know him?”

“I knew of him,” the thief replied, his tone neutral. At the time, the death of the Auditore had meant one less bank to plunder. His woes regarding the man’s passing were entirely different from Bernardo and Paola’s.

“One of the last great Florentines, I should think,” Bernardo said, opening the door and shucking his muddy boots. “When we lose Lorenzo…” He gestured helplessly at the ceiling. “God help us all. Bartolomea!” His sudden shout made Volpe jump. “We have guests!”

A woman came bustling around the corner, scowling at him. She was, perhaps, one of the shortest people Volpe had ever seen. She had the looks of a girl who had once been very pretty, but age and child-bearing had softened her body and made her face rounder.

“Don’t yell at me,” she told Bernardo irritably, smacking him with the bible she’d had tucked beneath her arm. “Oh, Paola, dear, you look lovely, just lovely.”

“My wife, _Madonna_ Bartolomea,” Bernardo said, shuffling out of her way when she moved past him to straighten the boots he’d abandoned carelessly at the door. “Dear, is lunch ready, then?”

“Almost, don’t be impatient,” she said, lifting her scriptures threateningly, and he flinched away. “But there’s bread and cheese, if you’re hungry,” she added sweetly to Volpe.

“I’m… quite satisfied, thank you.”

“Ah.” She looked at Paola, a shadow of worry crossing her face. “You’re here for Nico, then?”

“Just to speak with him,” Paola said, patting the older woman’s shoulder. “We won’t be long.”

“Nonsense, they’ll stay for lunch, of course.” Bernardo crossed his arms over his chest and nodded as if that settled the matter.

“Oh, Bernardo, we couldn’t impose—”

He snorted and waved a dismissive hand, interrupting her. “Don’t be ridiculous. I don’t see enough of old friends.”

Bartolomea released a short laugh. “Not enough of old friends? Then who is that horde who tromps through my kitchen and drinks all the wine every day, hm? Not enough of old friends, he says, this husband of mine. Hmph!”

He smiled weakly and patted her back as she passed. “Thank you, love. Where are the boys?”

“Out back, brawling and ruining their clothes, what else?” She disappeared into the kitchen, still tutting, and with a smile and roll of his eyes Bernardo beckoned Paola and Volpe, leading them through the house and to the back door.

A chorus of shouts greeted them as they stepped into the back courtyard. Bernardo had quite the green thumb; it was well-furnished with a variety of trees and flowers. A pair of young men were already in occupancy, swinging at each other with dulled practice blades, both breathless from exertion and laughter. The youngest made a wild swing and stumbled, whereupon the older, chortling, side-stepped him with ease and planted a foot on his arse, pushing him face-first into the dirt.

“No fair!” the boy coughed, scrambling to his feet and turning on the other man with hot cheeks.

“It’s not my fault you fell.”

“It was so!”

The older boy grinned and grabbed his brother in a headlock, rubbing his knuckles against the curly scalp.

“Ow! Ow, Nico, stop it—”

“I’m sorry, what? Who won?”

“You did! Ow ow _ow_!”

Volpe huffed and looked away, occupying himself with examining a nearby flower while Bernardo called the boys over.

“Papa,” the youngest one said, approaching them at a run, panting, “did you see that?!”

“I did.” Bernardo patted the boy’s head, smiling down at him. “You took too big a swing. Swordplay is about grace, hm? Speed.”

“I’m good enough for the both of us, Totto, so don’t worry about it,” the older boy said, catching up at a much slower pace and grinning when his younger brother scowled up at him. “I’d have cleaned up if I knew we were having company, Bernardo.”

“Ah, no need.” Bernardo clapped a hand to the young man’s shoulder and gave him a shake. “Paola, Volpe—I’d like to introduce my son. Niccolò, these are associates of mine. They’re from the order.”

Volpe frowned and looked up, paying attention at last, and opened his mouth to protest—he was certainly not a part of the order, thank you very much, he had his own life—but he stopped cold when he caught sight of the older Machiavelli boy. He was every bit his father’s son, down to the dark hair and wiry build, and grey eyes surveyed Volpe with such intensity that the thief was hard pressed not to look away.

“It’s an honor, _Madonna_ Paola.” Niccolò kissed the woman’s hand, but his eyes stayed on Volpe, watching. “My friend Biagio absolutely gushes about you. I’ve heard a great deal.”

“Does he?” Paola raised her eyebrows. “And from where might I know your friend Biagio?”

“From the bro—uh.” Niccolò stopped and swallowed, smiling apologetically while Bernardo laughed. “From… from around.”

“Mm.” Paola smiled and pinched his cheek. “Young men should spend less time in brothels and more time making themselves useful to their fathers.”

“Now, the Auditore boy was the same way, and he’s turned out alright,” Bernardo reminded her.

“Giovanni didn’t _encourage_ Ezio’s bad habits, _Bernardo_ ,” Paola said pointedly, jabbing him in his rounded belly.

Niccolò kept a placid smile on his face, but he was watching Volpe again with a mixture of interest and suspicion, and Volpe stared right back. Oh, God, Fortune was good. The moment he thought he’d run out of pretty boys to fuck, the blasted order brought him another. Perhaps he wouldn't be so reticent to help the assassins in the future.

Bartolomea called for her husband, and he took Totto inside, leaving his friends to acquaint themselves with his son. Paola, as always, made conversation happily, and to his credit Niccolò kept up with her. He had an ease and charisma about him, symptoms of a boy raised well in a happy home, and Volpe couldn’t help but feel the tiniest bit of chagrin. Ezio was tolerable, at least—he’d suffered loss, had tasted defeat and knew humility. Here, though, was a boy who was smart and affable and knew it, who had nothing to lose and everything to gain, who brimmed with potential. No wonder the order wanted him, Volpe thought wryly. They collected talent like a hunter collected trophies.

“You’re good with the sword,” Paola was saying, taking the practice blade from where it hung limp at Niccolò’s belt and testing the balance. “You’ve trained on them long?”

“Since I was a boy. Younger than Totto.”

“Hm.” She lifted the blade and rested the dulled tip against his collarbone, smiling at him. “Show me more.”

He canted his head to the side just slightly and returned her smile. “Happily.” He turned the blade away and placed a hand over the grip, brushing her fingers as he did so, and turned to Volpe. “Perhaps you’d join me for a bout.”

Volpe arched one eyebrow. “I’m likely to kill an amaetur, boy.”

“Is that so?” Niccolò dropped onto the grass, smiling at him. “I doubt it very much. Unless, of course, you think the experience conferred by old age can surpass the wit and vigor of youth.”

Oh. _Oh_. So that was how it was going to be. Growling, Volpe dropped off the patio and took up Totto’s abandoned sword, giving it a twirl to test the weight before tightening his grip. Niccolò stood a few paces away, his stance easy and loose, and though he was still smiled, the intensity was back in his eyes, the expectation.

It wasn’t his style, but Volpe attacked first, lunging forward and bringing his blade down in a wide arc that forced Niccolò to move back, hefting his sword just in time to parry. The clash of steel on steel was deafening, and Volpe took advantage of the boy’s brief surprise to swing at him again, his time low, aiming for his knees. Niccolò leapt over the blade and aimed a jab at Volpe’s side, forcing the thief into a sharp spin to avoid getting hit in the kidney.

“You are good,” Volpe said, and he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t impressed. “Want to make this more interesting?”

“A wager?” Niccolò lunged again, and Volpe parried, this time with ease. “Alright.”

“If I win—” He swung, and Niccolò rolled out of the way, “I get to grab your ass.”

The boy skidded to a stop and glared at him. “Absolutely not.”

“Why? You think you’ll lose?”

Niccolò’s cheeks reddened. “No. Fine, if that’s what you want. And if I win?” Their blades met in the air between them when they both took frantic swipes at one another.

“I’ll lick your boots.”

“Ah.” The younger man grinned. “That I like.” He dodged a wide blow and switched his stance, tossing his blade into his left hand, his smile widening when Volpe hesitated. “Come on, then, fox.”

They began again in earnest, their fighting fiercer, faster. The boy was _better_ with his other hand—Volpe ground his teeth, chagrined, funneling the anger over his wounded pride into every strike. Perhaps it clouded his judgement, for Niccolò’s parry turned into an attack that took him off guard, and Volpe found his hand stinging and his sword on the ground.

“Do I win, then?” Niccolò stepped forward and settled the tip of his blade at the hollow of Volpe’s throat, breathing hard. “Not much else you can do, is there.”

“Perhaps not.” He did love the arrogance of youth. With practiced ease, Volpe pulled his dagger from its hiding place up his sleeve and knocked Niccolò’s blade aside, kicked the sword out of his hand, and swept a foot behind his ankle. The young man went down hard, and sat up to find the pointed edge of the dagger between his eyes.

“But, then, even the oldest fox has his share of tricks,” Volpe finished, quirking a wide grin down at the scowling youth. He slid his dagger into his belt and offered Niccolò a hand, sighing when the boy only continued to glare at him. “Come on, then, it was just a bit of sport. And you nearly had me, didn’t you?”

“Don’t patronize me.” But Niccolò took the profferred hand and let himself be pulled to his feet.

Volpe smirked, used the momentum to pull Niccolò close, too close, he knew, for comfort, and slid his free hand around the narrow waist to grab a handful of the young man’s ass. He squeezed, grinning at Niccolò’s sharp intake of breath at his ear, massaging the hard young muscles.

“Lovely.” He chuckled when he was pushed away by firm hands on his shoulders, and Niccolò stalked past him, growling at the laughing Paola and stepping into his house. Volpe rejoined the courtesan with a languid smile, and she slapped a hand against his chest.

“I hope you’re happy. It’ll be a miracle if he agrees to join us in Venezia now.”

“Worth it,” Volpe replied, still grinning, and followed her inside.

 _Madonna_ Bartolomea had pulled out all the stops, and Volpe found his mouth watering as he stepped into the kitchen. A freshly washed Totto was seated at the table, stuffing his mouth with bread and hot ham, while Bernardo sipped at a glass of wine.

“Ah, there they are.” He pulled out the seat next to him and patted it. “So, the fox soundly whipped my poor son. I haven’t seen the boy so angry since—well. I don’t think I’ve ever seen the boy so angry.”

“I apologize if I went too far.”

“Nonsense, it’s good for him to lose. Teach him some humility,” Bernardo said with a chuckle, clapping Volpe on the shoulder. The thief had, obviously, been talking about the ass-grabbing, but he couldn’t imagine that Niccolò had offered up that particular little detail. He laughed along with Bernardo and accepted a plate of food and resolved not to divulge either.

Niccolò joined them a few minutes later, washed and changed, his damp hair sticking up at all angles. He ducked away from his mother when she tried to smooth it for him, defusing her with a kiss to the cheek before sitting down beside Bernardo, pointedly ignoring the smiling Volpe.

“Bartolomea, love, could you take Totto?” Bernardo asked.

“Why?” Totto said, affronted. “I want to stay!”

“No, _piccino_ , let the adults talk,” Bartolomea said, and led her sulking son by the hand into the adjacent room, closing the door behind her.

Niccolò took the plate his father offered him, tearing off a chunk of bread and pouring himself a glass of wine. “So. Is this about Venezia? About the Spanish cardinal who’s been stirring up so much trouble?”

Paola raised her eyebrows. “Yes, as a matter of fact. You know of Borgia?”

“Of him, about him, about his family, his history, his position and his power. Yes.” Niccolò swirled his wine, testing the taste before electing to let it sit out awhile. “The college of cardinals is a nest of vipers, of which he is perhaps the most deadly.”

“You think he will conspire to assume the papacy, then.”

Niccolò smiled, but there was no humor in it. “ _Madonna_ , I think his conspiracy has long since hatched. Even now he is making friends, collecting favors. He uses diplomacy to get what he wants, and if he cannot have it, he uses his son to strong-arm any dissenters.”

“The brotherhood will suffer if this man takes the throne of St. Peter,” Paola said, sitting forward and lacing her fingers together upon the table. “Perhaps we can support a different candidate, have a man in Roma who will do our will.”

Niccolò shook his head. “It’s too late. Rodrigo will be pope.”

“How can you know?” Volpe asked, and kicked himself mentally; he’d vowed not to get involved. “Do you have the gift of prophecy?”

The young man smiled, all sarcasm and dissention, and his expression made Volpe’s guts boil with something between hate and lust. “No. Nothing so splendid. No one in the Vatican has enough influence to overcome Borgia. No one. He is the vice chancellor and the pope’s most trusted servant. The college of cardinals dances for him. We cannot stop Borgia from becoming pope, only undermine his system of support.”

“Who can we use?” Bernardo asked quietly, pouring himself another glass of wine. “Who will be closest to the throne when Borgia becomes pope?”

Niccolò thought for a moment, rubbing his jaw. “Ascanio Sforza,” he said at length.

Paola frowned. “Surely not. He’s too young, he has no power. And the Sforza have been defying papal orders for years. They have their own little kingdom in Milan.”

“Precisely. For decades the Vatican has been throwing arms against Milan’s walls, and for decades Milan has laughed over it.” Niccolò paused to sip his wine, his brows furrowed. “Borgia is no fool. Where might has failed, he will seek friendship with Milan. He’ll make Sforza his vice chancellor, use him as a bargaining chip to weaken Milan’s resistance to papal rule.”

“Caterina Sforza is one of us,” Volpe said. Niccolò looked at him, something close to appraisal in those grey eyes. “She is much beloved by her cousins, Giovanni and Lodovico. If she can convince Milan to continue its opposition of the spread of papal rule, then Borgia’s influence through Ascanio will be nullified.”

“Then Forli must hold. You should send men to reinforce it, if you can—or send Caterina good, strong _condotierri_ who will train a citizen’s army.”

Paola looked at Niccolò with raised brows. “A citizen’s army? Why? Surely mercenaries will do a better job.”

He held up a hand and shook his head. “Mercenaries are bought and held with coin. They will run the moment it is more beneficial to do so. Citizens will stand in defense of their country. Give them a sword, and they will fight to the death in defense of their cities and families.”

“Can we buy him?” Bernardo asked. “Ascanio?”

“He is a cardinal,” Niccolò said, his voice grim. “They can all be bought.”

Paola glanced at Volpe, and after a moment’s thought, he nodded. They needed this boy. There was no question.

“Niccolò,” she said, reaching across the table to place a hand on his arm, “I have a proposition for you.”

“Oh?”

“We would like for you to come with us to Venezia. Help us reclaim what has been taken from us. Help us strengthen our brotherhood, and prepare Ezio Auditore to take his place among us.”

“As Mentor?”

“Yes. When he’s ready.”

Niccolò looked at his father. “I’ll… consider it.”

“I understand that you have a life here—family, friends, lovers. That is difficult to give up.” Paola tightened her grip. “But you are a Machiavelli, Niccolò, and the Machiavelli have always been assassins. You are one of us. It is your birthright.”

The young man snorted. “I finally gain something through nepotism, and it is the chance to die in the service of ideals.”

Bernardo touched his son’s shoulder. “Niccolò…”

“I said I will consider it.” The boy got to his feet and pushed his chair in. “Make sure you send troops to Forli.” He departed without another word; they distantly heard the front door open and close.

“I’ll go after him,” Bernardo began, but suddenly Volpe found himself on his feet, shaking his head.

“I’ll go.” He pulled his hood a little lower over his eyes. “He may benefit from the opinion of another outsider.”

Paola took Bernardo’s hand, reassuring, and nodded to Volpe. He left, heading out the back door and circling around the palazzo. The sun had begun its descent down to the horizon, painting the sky the colors of dusk. Niccolò was easy enough to find; there were only so many places to go from the Santo Spirito district, especially when one wanted to be alone. Volpe tracked him down by the river and found him sitting on the bank, tossing stones listlessly into the water and watching the ripples race toward the opposite shore.

“Are you here to tell me I’m duty-bound to join the order?” Niccolò asked, without turning around, as Volpe approached. “Because I already know that.”

“No.” Volpe came to a stop behind him. “I detest the very notion of duty, and I’m only aligned with the brotherhood so long as our interests are mutual.”

“So you will run, then, as soon as it no longer behooves you to stay.”

The thief made a noise that was neither confirmation nor denial. “I detest these Borgia.”

“Because they are better thieves than you?”

“Clever.” Volpe sat down beside him, turning to look at the youth. “You’re prettier when you smile.”

Niccolò scowled sideways at him. “I’ve no interest in being pretty. I’m a man, in case you couldn’t tell.”

“You may have a cock, but that doesn’t make you a man. Not yet.” Volpe grinned. “You’ve got to learn how to use it, first.”

The youth snorted. “And you’d be the one to teach me, would you?”

“If you’d like.”

Niccolò finally turned to look at him, his grey eyes searching. “I’m no sodomite.”

“They never are until I get my hands on them.” Volpe offered up his most disarming grin. “Relax, boy. I’ve never taken a lover who wasn’t begging me for it. I do have some principles.”

“Mm.” Niccolò didn’t look entirely convinced, but his shoulders relaxed slightly. “What would you do, were you in my position?”

“I? I would never in a million years leave my sweet mama and papa behind to go fight a war, that’s for damn sure. I probably wouldn’t sleep at night, either, but it would be well worth it.”

“You wouldn’t go, then. To Venezia.”

“No, I wouldn’t.” Volpe shrugged. “But here I am. I have less reason than you to be a part of this order. I’m less useful, as well. We need you, boy. We need that mind. We have all the brawn in the world, and then some, but no one to guide us through the Borgia’s layers of deception, no one who can combat his influence on the public forum.”

“You would have me be a politician for the cause?”

“We would.” Volpe blew out a breath, scratching his head. “And Ezio… well, he’s a good lad. Ten years your senior with half your sense. He needs someone who will force him to see logic, force him to put aside emotion. An adviser, of sorts.”

Niccolò hummed, cradling his jaw in his hands. “Will I have to kill people?”

“Yes. Probably.”

“Can we win?”

“I don’t know. Probably not.”

The boy smiled thinly. “It sounds like a foolish venture.”

“It is. Make no mistake, it is. And dangerous.”

Niccolò shrugged one shoulder, picking at a cluster of grass between his boots. “Never was anything great achieved without danger.”

“Who said that?”

“I did.”

Volpe grinned and ruffled the boy’s hair. “You see? You are one of us.”

“Can I ask you something?”

“I suppose.”

“Why did you want to grab my ass?”

The thief’s grin widened. “Because it’s the loveliest thing I’ve seen all day. And I like possessing pretty things. It makes me a good thief.”

“And a terrible man?”

“Maybe.” He took Niccolò’s jaw in his hand and forced the boy to meet his gaze. “If I were in your position, I wouldn’t go to Venezia. But I think, _bello_ , that you are a better man than me.” He leaned closer, and felt Niccolò stiffen, perhaps afraid he was about to be kissed. Volpe smiled. “Come see me again if you have more questions.”

So saying, he released the youth and got to his feet, stretching widely before turning and heading back up the bank, leaving Niccolò staring after him while the sun set over Firenze.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EDIT: Bernardo's full name has been amended to be more historically accurate.


	2. On Arms and Mistrust

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “In conclusion, the arms of others either fall from your back, or they weigh you down, or they bind you fast.” 
> 
> -The Prince, Chapter XIII: Concerning Auxiliaries, Mixed Soldiery, and One's Own

Adriana squealed and arched, her dark hair a messy pool around her dark shoulders, her red lips parted, exposing the flicker of a wet tongue. Her nails were daggers on his back, scoring angry red lines across his skin while her heels beat against his sides. Her cries were too high and too loud. Niccolò fucked into the wetness between her legs thrice more before sitting up, breathless and scowling.

“Stop that.”

She pushed herself up on her elbows. “Stop what, sweetheart?”

“Shrieking like that.” He wiped his mouth on his sleeve, wet from her sloppy kisses, and swung his legs out of bed, wincing when his hard length bounced uncomfortably against his abdomen. “I know you’re disingenuous.”

“Oh, Machia, don’t be like that.” She rolled onto her side and placed a hand on his cock, giving him a tug. “I do it for all my customers. It’s just habit. You know how much I like fucking you.” She squeezed to emphasize her point, grinning like a cat when he groaned and pushed his hips up into her touch. “Ooh, you’re close, hm? Lie back.”

He did as he was asked, watching her while she straddled his hips and ground down against him, trapping his cock beneath her wetness, sliding her sex up and down his length. She pinned his wrists to the bed when he reached for her breasts and upped her pace, biting her lower lip as she rubbed her swollen clit against him.

“Oh, oh—oh, _fuuuck_. Machia.”

Niccolò closed his eyes and tipped his head back, tried to relax and enjoy her attentions, tried to focus on the wetness and the heat on his cock. He’d prefer to be in her, but Adriana had been pregnant twice and didn’t fancy going through a third miscarriage. She was a peculiar one, probably the oddest and most vulgar girl he’d ever been with. She was quick to strip naked, amenable to let him do just about anything to her.

“Adriana?”

“Mm?” Her eyes were closed, her head lowered, focusing on pleasuring herself on his cock. “What?”

“Have you ever been fucked in the ass?”

“Oh, yea. Loads of times.” She licked her fingertips and began to play with his tip, rubbing the pad of one finger against the slit and smiling when he jerked up against her. “Does that feel good?”

He nodded and folded his hands behind his head, watching her play with him. “What’s it like?”

“Having your cock touched? Wouldn’t know, love. Oh, you mean the ass thing?” She sat back and braced her hands on his knees, shrugging. “It’s alright. You’ve got to go about it the right way. I’ve a toy if you want to try it.”

“Er, no, thank you.” He reached for her, brushing a thumb over a soft pink nipple and watching it harden beneath his touch. She did have sweet little breasts, round and ripe as apples. “What’s the right way to go about it?”

“You’re obviously curious about the subject.”

“I’m curious about everything.”

Adriana raised her eyebrows. “Well, you’ve got to use oil.”

“Oil?”

“Mm. Makes it nice and slick so it don’t hurt as much.” She grinned, white teeth biting at her lip. “Has some man tried to fuck you, Machia?”

“No.” But he thought about Volpe when he said it, and the little jolt of pleasure that had raced through him when the thief kneaded at his ass, and his face grew hot. “Well. Maybe.”

“I think you might like it. You could be the type.” She ground down on him harder, fresh wetness slicking his cock. “Might be nice, hm? Big strong arms to hold you down, a great big prick in your ass, pounding into you. Sound like fun?”

It didn’t sound _not_ fun. Volpe didn’t have the biggest physique, but he was strong, yes. Strong and cunning. Niccolò thought about that hand on his ass again, guiltily, wondered what it might be like to feel that hand on his bare flesh, teasing him open, Volpe’s mouth on his, the slickness of his tongue—

He came very suddenly, arching into Adriana with a grunt, coming back down with hard shudders while she pouted and ran her fingertips through the sticky mess on his abdomen.

“Spoilsport. I wasn’t done yet.”

“Sorry.” He sat up shakily and grasped her thighs, throwing her onto her back and burying his mouth between her legs. She squealed and wound a hand into his hair, thrusting up and rocking against his face. He teased her with soft licks until she began to whine, then pressed his mouth to her clit and sucked, running slow caresses up and down her legs while she came apart around him.

“Oh, God. Oh, fuck, Machia.” She rested her arms over her eyes, breathing hard. “ _Fuck_. You’re the only one of my customers who bothers to finish me off, you know.”

“Mm.” He sat up and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand before leaning down to kiss her. She permitted it for all of about three seconds before pushing him away and tucking his soft length back into his trousers.

“Don’t forget to pay before you go.”

“You won’t tell anyone, will you?”

“That you’ve been to see me? No point, Machia, everyone knows already.”

“No—” He let her tie his shirt. “About the…”

“Oh, the ass thing. Again.” She laughed and leaned up to kiss him briefly, biting his lower lip. “No, I won’t tell. Wouldn’t do to see my favorite boy burned at the stake for sodomy.”

“Thanks,” he grumbled, and she laughed and swatted his ass as he clambered off the bed, dropping a handful of ducats on her table before he slipped out the door.

The rest of the brothel was muggy and sweaty. His friend Biagio was still tumbling about with a girl, laughing and biting at her neck while she screeched with delight. Niccolò left without addressing him—Biagio was a cuddler and would take forever—and headed out into the city, feeling tired and sore and not overwhelmingly cheerful. Normally a rendezvous with Adriana put him in high spirits, but if possible, he felt worse than he did before he’d seen her.

He made use of the well behind the brothel, cleaning off his debauched abdomen and drenching his sweat-soaked hair. Guilt and shame burned in his stomach, wriggling around in his guts like snakes. He’d thought about Volpe while he had a perfectly lovely girl perched on his cock. Why the hell had he thought about Volpe? And he’d come, too, thinking about the thief’s hands on him. Feeling queasy, he headed back toward the Ponte Vecchio, kicking at an errant stone in his path.

He wasn’t a sodomite. At least, he didn’t think he was. He had let Biagio suck him off once, but that had been a dare, and they were drunk, and it had lasted all of about thirty seconds before Biagio had toppled out of his chair and vomited everywhere. He certainly hadn’t gotten off on it (though the wine probably had a lot to do with that), and the next day he’d found himself in the arms of the wife of one of his classmates at the Studio (and earned himself a sound beating from his father).

But Volpe. Volpe was… he didn’t know. Dark? Mysterious? Brooding? Complicated. Complex. Like a puzzle in a person. Niccolò didn’t often meet truly interesting people. But books were interesting, and he didn’t want to stick his cock inside a book, so…?

Irritated, and unable to shake the curious mix of shame and want crawling around in the pit of his belly, Niccolò walked to the bank of the Arno and plopped down in the dirt, tossing a rock into the quiet waters and startling a few fish. He closed his eyes and enjoyed the sensation of the Tuscan sun on his skin. Volpe had curious eyes—almost violet in color, and they flashed like a mirror caught in sunlight. Dark lashes. Dark features. Almost like a Moor, if his skin had been duskier. And his hands…

_“I like possessing pretty things.”_

Niccolò groaned, shifting his hips when the pressure in his trousers became uncomfortable. “Oh, fuck,” he muttered, looking down at the hardening bulge between his legs with a sigh. “Come _on_ , not again. Go away.”

His erection, of course, did no such thing, leaving him scowling at his own crotch while he debated options. He glanced up and down the bank; it dipped sharply beneath the wall, giving him some modicum of privacy, and there was no one around. He undid the laces on his trousers and took hold of his cock, wincing, still sensitive. Never before had he gotten hard less than an hour after coming. It had to be a record. He had half a mind to brag to Biagio, but then he’d have to explain what had gotten him excited again, and that, well… he was reluctant to admit that even to himself.

He rested his weight on an elbow, palming the head of his cock, still sticky from Adriana’s attentions at the base. Biting his lip, he stroked his length cautiously, huffing a breath against his shoulder when he ached at his own touch. He didn’t remember the last time he’d played with himself; there was usually a girl around who was happy to help. One of the benefits of being somewhat charming and not the worst looking young man in Firenze. He cast his mind around, tried to think of a girl he’d been wanting—

Volpe. Volpe’s strange eyes, watching him, appraising him. Volpe sliding a hand down his ass and squeezing, purring in his ear, coaxing him onto his hands and knees and stroking him—

Niccolò groaned and flinched. He’d gotten too hard, too fast, too soon after coming, and touching himself hurt. Sitting up with difficulty, panting, he glared down at his aching length and tried again, shivering when the little prickles of pleasure turned to pain.

“It’s because you’re doing it dry.”

He jumped so badly he thought he might shit himself and spun around. Volpe was standing behind him, a smirk on his wry features. The thief closed the distance between them and sat down, placing his hand over Niccolò’s.

“May I?”

Well, shit. Niccolò nodded dumbly, lost for words, and pulled his hand back, transfixed by the sight of Volpe touching his hard length. The thief smiled and reached into his pocket, withdrawing a small bottle and uncorking it with his teeth before upending it over Niccolò’s cock. The oil within came out drop by drop, each one like a kiss on his tip, and Niccolò was groaning even before the liquid heated up and came out as a steady stream.

“There,” Volpe murmured, shaking the bottle to get the last dregs before wrapping a hand around the young man’s shaft, slathering his length in oil, paying special attention to the head of his cock. “That’s better, hm?”

Niccolò couldn’t respond, wouldn’t know what to say even if he could. Volpe smirked knowingly and began to pump, dragging his fist from base to tip, adding a twisting motion at the lowest point and rubbing his thumb right up against the slit at the highest. A shudder crawled down the length of Niccolò’s spine, something primal and powerful that left him _moaning_ , weak little sounds that didn’t sound like him.

“You’re so hard.” Volpe’s voice was soft, something like appraisal darkening his tone. He cradled Niccolò’s cock in his palm, trailing a finger down the length and licking his lips. “Girls must like you, hm?” He squeezed again, pumping languidly, and his thumb rubbing at the underside, just beneath the swollen head, was so good it was torturous. “I like the way your hips move, _bello_. It’s very pretty.”

Niccolò still didn’t have any words. He couldn’t speak, couldn’t move save for the desperate little jerks of his hips, fucking himself into the slick, tight squeeze of Volpe’s fist. All he could do was watch, his arms shaking with the effort of holding himself upright, rocks digging into his elbows through his shirt. Volpe made a low noise like a purr, lifted his free hand to push the linen up Niccolò’s abdomen, fingertips mapping the contours of his torso. Niccolò trembled, watching the hand rummaging beneath his clothes, a needy little gasp escaping when a thumb teased his nipple.

“Girls don’t tease enough, do they? There’s more to pleasuring a man than rutting away at his cock.” His hand abandoned Niccolò’s erection, slid between his legs and rubbed the soft, tender area behind his balls. “Like here. Ever been touched here?”

Niccolò shook his head, still speechless (for the first time in his entire life). His shame at his neediness was a thousand worlds away. He grasped Volpe’s wrist and pulled that hand back onto his cock, stuttered helpless nothings when the pressure returned.

“You want to come?” Volpe canted his head to the side, a wicked grin twisting his handsome features. “Young bucks have no patience.” He cupped a hand to Niccolò’s neck, rubbing a thumb over his mouth. “Alright. Only because you’re looking at me like that.”

That grin widened, and then the slick pressure on Niccolò’s cock was almost bruising, so fast and so hard that he was coming within moments, thrusting up into that sinful hand. Volpe smiled, aimed the captive length upward so Niccolò was coming all over his abdomen. The thief was purring, trailing his fingertips through the mess, smearing it over the inflamed head and down to the base, back up again.

Niccolò pulled in a few shaky breaths, fists drawing in handfuls of dirt, trying to cling to the earth. His face felt hot, his ears burning, his cock aching. He didn’t look at Volpe, but couldn’t look down at the debauchery on his abdomen; he tipped his head back and looked at the sky, tried not to think about what had just happened, the act of sin in which he’d been a willing and enthusiastic participant.

“Beautiful boy.” Volpe’s hand patted his cheek. “It’d be a shame if you didn’t join the order.” The thief got to his feet, sweeping in and out of Niccolò’s determinedly averted field of vision as he strode back up the bank.

For several long minutes the young man didn’t move. He lowered himself to the ground, breathing hard, his thoughts racing. Oh, God. Fuck. He’d never come like that. Never. Never for so hard and so long. With slow deliberation he sat back up, his limbs like jelly, and looked down at himself. Double fuck. He couldn’t go home like this. Trembling badly, he pushed himself to his feet and waded into the river, shivering when the cold water came up to his waist, sending little pinpricks of pain through his already sensitive cock. He washed himself as best he could, submerged himself completely in the dark water, washing sweat and dirt from his hair. Volpe’s touch was still there, on his face and neck and chest and prick, a ghost that even the Arno couldn’t clean away.

It took him ages to walk home, taking ginger steps and wincing with every one. His father was in the garden, as always, and called out a greeting that Niccolò pretended not to hear. He stepped inside and pulled the door closed, and suddenly didn’t have the strength to stay upright. He slid onto his ass, leaning his weight against the door, staring down at the space between his boots.

“Nico?”

He looked up. “Primavera.”

His sister crouched down in front of him, tucking a strand of dark hair behind her ear and offering him a cautious smile. She was just two years older than him, married away when she was just fifteen. They’d always been close, even when they were very little, and her marriage had only strengthened the bond between them.

“What are you doing on the floor?” She laughed, reaching out to touch his sodden hair. “And why are you all wet?”

“Just…” He didn’t know what he was ‘just’ doing on the floor, so he shrugged and reached for her, brushing a thumb over her cheek. “I went for a swim. Welcome home, sis. It’s been too long.”

“Mm.” Her eyes—so like his own, their father’s—searched him, seeing too much, as always. “Francesco’s in Pisa, so I thought I’d come and visit.”

Niccolò had stopped listening; his thumb had come away smudged with cream-colored powder, and there was a spread of purple beneath the soft warmth of Primavera’s cheek. He sat up too fast, startling her, taking her face in his hands and rubbing at the spot.

“What the—”

“Don’t,” she said, realizing too late what he was doing. She grabbed his wrists when he made to stand, shaking her head “Nico, don’t, it’s alright—”

“Did he do this?”

“It wasn’t—”

“Did he do this?!” It was worse than he’d first thought. She’d covered it well, but his insistence revealed more bruises along her jaw, at her neck, beneath her eyes. “I’ll kill him. I’m going to _kill_ that son of a bitch.”

“It was my fault,” she said, tears filling her eyes, following him to his feet. She held onto him, gripping his arms. “Brother, _don’t_ —”

Niccolò didn’t trust himself to speak. Anger pooled in his veins, sharp as daggers, sharpening with every look he chanced at his sister—his beloved sister, the gentlest and most loving creature on the face of the earth. Primavera, sniffling, stepped forward and wrapped her arms around him, pressing her face into his chest.

“Nico. It’s okay. I’m okay. Please don’t do anything. Please.”

“How often does it happen?”

“Niccolò—”

“How often, sis?”

“It was all at once. It was the first time, I promise. He’d just had too much to drink, and I was pestering him—”

“You could pester him day and night for the next hundred years. That doesn’t mean he gets to lay a hand on you.” Niccolò wrapped his arms around her, closed his eyes and held her tight. She had seemed so much taller when they were children. Now her body was willowy, light, and she was a head shorter than him. “When is he coming back?”

“Not for a few days.” She looked up at him, eyes earnest and imploring. “Promise me you won’t confront him, Nico, please. He’s your brother-in-law. Family.”

“He’s no brother of mine,” he said, a little more harshly than he’d intended, and he touched her cheek when she flinched away. “Sis. I won’t hurt him, alright? I promise. I won't lay a hand on him. Stay here with Mama.”

She tightened her grip on him. “Where are you going?”

“Just for a walk. Just to clear my head.” He pushed her hair back and kissed her forehead. “We’ll talk more when I get back.”

Primavera nodded and released him, giving his hand a final squeeze before he headed back outside. His father was still in the garden, and straightened when Niccolò approached.

“Did you see your sister?”

“Did you?” Niccolò countered, struggling to keep his voice steady.

“Yes?” Bernardo stuck his shovel in the dirt and raised his eyebrows, mopping his sweaty forehead. “What’s wrong, lad?”

Niccolò clenched his fists to stop them trembling. “He hit her.”

“What? Who?”

“That piece of shit Francesco hit Prima. She’s got bruises on her face. Her neck. God knows where else.”

Bernardo stared at him. “She… she looked fine.”

“She hid them.” Niccolò began to pace, agitated, fury coiling hot in his stomach. “What are we going to do?”

“I don’t…”

“What are we going to do?!”

“Niccolò,” Bernardo said, stepping forward and taking his son’s shoulder, “this is a delicate—”

“There’s nothing delicate about it! He hit her! His wife, the mother of his child, he—” Niccolò broke off, shook off his father’s hand  and strode from the garden, ignoring Bernardo calling after him.

Fine. _Fine._ He’d take care of it himself. He didn’t need help taking care of a shit like Francesco, who had money and status but no brains. Every bruise he gave Prima would be returned tenfold, Niccolò would make sure of that.

But he’d promised. As much as he wanted to find a sword and cut that son of a whore to ribbons, he’d made a promise to his sister. Niccolò crossed the Ponte Vecchio with wide strides, grinding his teeth. He didn’t have the money to hire _condotierri_ , and his friends were young men like him—intelligent and affluent but without any real power.

Ah. He came to a halt, staring at his boots, thinking hard. The thief. He didn’t want to, not after—whatever had just happened between them, not with his cock still aching from the older man’s ministrations, but… but God dammit, Francesco had to pay.

He didn’t, unfortunately, have any idea where  one might find la Volpe (that was sort of the point, he supposed). At a loss, he headed for Paola’s brothel, following directions Biagio had given him months ago but had never used (not that he didn’t trust his friend’s recommendation, but Biagio’s tastes were… well, they were what they were). A few girls loitered by the entrance, giggling and reaching for him, and he pushed past them, stepping through the door.

“Hey there, sweetheart.” A girl his age or a little older looked up when he entered, offering him a wide smile. “Looking for someone?”

“Paola.”

The girl frowned. “She’s busy. Maybe I can keep you company until she can see you?”

He shook his head, pushing away the hand she trailed across his chest. “Where is she?”

Affronted, the girl pointed up the stairs, and he took them three at a time, ducking through a veil of beads and squinting around the darkened room. Paola’s dulcet tones floated from the corner; she was on the bed with a young man, cooing down at him while he trailed kisses along her neck.

“Machia?” She looked up when he stepped closer, startled. “Good Lord, what are you doing here? I’m with a client.”

“It’s important.”

“It had better be.” The woman disentangled herself from the youth, patting his chest when he pouted after her, and got to her feet, leading Niccolò into the corner and turning her hard gaze up at him. “What?”

“I need to find Volpe.”

She huffed, spreading her hands wide. “Very well, I shall summon him here now.”

“I’m being serious. How do I find him?”

“He makes a point of not being found. If he wants to see you, you’ll see him.”

Niccolò felt his face grow hot. He knew that all too well. “Who can help me?”

“One of his thieves, I suppose?” She turned around and called to the young man lounging on her bed. “Gallo! Where’s the fox?”

The boy rolled onto his back and shrugged. “How should I know?”

“You know his rounds, you naughty boy.” Paola returned to the bed and leant down to leave a suckling kiss against his throat. “Come now, where is your dear master?”

Gallo bit out a grin. “Alright, alright. What time is it?”

“Just past terce.”

“He’ll be in the market, then, cutting pockets.”

“Then I’m off.” Niccolò turned toward the door, halting when Paola called after him.

“Machia. Have you given any more thought to Venezia?”

He paused, bit his lip, and tried not to remember Volpe’s hands on his body. “Some. I’ll let you know.”

 

\---

 

The market was crowded and noisy. Niccolò wormed his way between shouting people, searching the sea of faces for the familiar smirking features, for the burnt orange hood. Shopkeepers called out to him, trying to entice him with fresh vegetables and mulled wine, while friends and classmates from the Studio reached out to catch him while he passed.

“God _dammit_.” He found a seat on a bench after an hour of searching, mopping sweat from the back of his neck and scowling at his boots. This had been a fool’s errand. If the thief didn’t want to be found, he wouldn’t be found. And even if he let Niccolò find him, there was no guarantee he’d help. Meanwhile, Francesco was in Pisa somewhere, probably between some whore’s legs, laughing over the beating he’d given Prima…

“You’re going to crack your teeth if you grit your jaw so much, _bello_.”

Niccolò jumped, almost falling off the bench when la Volpe took a seat beside him. “Shit! Where the hell did you come from?”

“I walked up behind you. You need to pay more attention to your surroundings if you’re going to be an assassin.” Volpe snaked an arm behind his shoulders, one fingertip stroking the nape of Niccolò’s neck. He smiled when the boy jerked away. “Did you miss me so soon?”

“No,” Niccolò said, reigning in his irritation, trying not to hear the little voice in his head that rejoiced at Volpe’s attention. “I need your help.”

“Oh?”

“My sister’s husband beat her. He needs to pay.”

“...Oh.” Volpe’s gaze hardened, his hand returning to his side. “That is serious indeed. You strike me as the type to try and take care of it yourself.”

“I promised her I wouldn’t hurt him.”

The thief cracked a wry grin. “So you’ll have someone else do it in your stead? How disingenuous of you.”

Niccolò shook his head. “I had a friend once, a girl named Chiara. Her husband started with her face, and she never let anyone confront him, hoping he would stop. He didn’t. It got worse and worse, and he beat that poor girl to death.” He turned his gaze on Volpe, his pulse pounding. “I won’t let it happen to Prima.”

“You love this sister of yours.”

“Of course I do.” Niccolò ran his hands through his hair, grinding his jaw again. “She was just a girl when they were married. She’s given him love and attention and a home and a little son, and he repays her with—with—with _violence_. For every bruise he gave her, I want him to have ten. No, a hundred.”

Volpe hummed, picking at lint on his cape. “So. I am to go pay back this man the injury he has done your sweet sis. And what do I get in return?”

“I can pay you—not much now, but give me time. If you’re willing to have me in your debt—”

Volpe interrupted him with a laugh, spreading his arms wide. “Dear, dear Niccolò. I am the greatest thief in all of Firenze—nay, all of Tuscania. What need have I for your money?”

Niccolò swallowed. “Then what do you want?”

The thief grinned, reaching for him and tracing a thumb along his jaw. “A kiss, I think, will do nicely.”

“That’s it?”

“Too cheap, you think?”

“No,” Niccolò said hastily. His skin burned where the older man touched him. “I… fine. After you do Francesco.”

Volpe huffed, his expression sliding into a pout, and he drew his hand away. “Very well. Where might I find this disagreeable fellow?”

“He’s in Pisa for a few days more.”

“That’s a day’s ride from here. Surely you’ll want to come along, to confirm that the job is done.”

“I…” Niccolò looked down at his boots, silencing the cheering in his head at the thought of spending a day and a night in the thief’s uninterrupted presence. “Yes, I’ll go.”

“Excellent.” Looking too happy for Niccolò’s liking, the thief got to his feet and stretched, his pockets jingling suspiciously. “Shall we be off, then? I assume you’ll provide our horses and provisions?”

Niccolò scowled and stood. “I suppose. Meet me at my house at dusk. We’ll leave under cover of night.”

“As you like it. The roads can be dangerous at night, but don’t worry, I’ll protect you.”

The young man pushed away the hand that reached for his ass, avoiding Volpe’s wide white grin. “We’ll see about that.”

  
  



	3. On Foxes and Wolves

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “The lion cannot protect himself from traps, and the fox cannot defend himself from wolves. One must therefore be a fox to recognize traps, and a lion to frighten wolves.” 
> 
> -The Prince, Chapter XVIII: In What Way Princes Must Keep Faith

Two days ago, Volpe had headed to the Palazzo Machiavelli in a dark, dour mood. Now he left it in the highest of spirits, humming as he led his horse through Firenze’s great southern gate and onto the dusty road. The night was warm and quiet, filled with the sounds of chirping insects and birds singing the sun to sleep. It was goddamn idyllic, was what it was, and he was sharing it in the best of company.

He twisted around in his saddle, looking at the young man riding behind him. Niccolò Machiavelli was looking down at a map, holding onto the horse with his thighs, his lips pursed.

“I think we should avoid the main road at night, at least. During the day it should be fine, but—” He broke off when he looked up to see Volpe grinning at him. “What the hell are you smirking about?”

“It’s just not every day that I get to go for a ride with a beautiful boy.”

Niccolò scowled and looked back down at the map. “Are you planning on being insufferable the entire trip?”

“Maybe.” Volpe tugged back on the reins, letting Niccolò draw level with him. “A kiss now may shut me up for a bit.”

“I’ll endure.” Niccolò kicked his horse and pushed on, leaving Volpe grinning at his back.

They made good time, riding hard while the sun was still in the sky. By the time it dipped below the horizon, Volpe could no longer see Firenze’s flickering lights, and the darkness that descended over the countryside was absolute.

“We should camp,” he said, squinting to make out Niccolò’s outline in the dim light. “We can leave again at dawn if you’re feeling anxious.”

Niccolò sighed loudly and pulled back on the reins, turning his horse around and patting her neck when she knickered and tossed her head. “Fine. Lead the way.”

Volpe guided them off the road, finding a stand of maple trees where they could tether the horses. He let Niccolò take care of them, scouting the perimeter a hundred yards in either direction and returning when he was satisfied that they were alone. He paused outside their makeshift camp, watching the young man trying to light a fire with the last light of day. The thief couldn’t lie to himself; his first thoughts toward Niccolò had been in jest, but there was a very real want coiled at the base of his spine. He’d give a great deal to make the boy his, even if only for a night.

“Stop staring.” Niccolò leaned closer to the bundle of dry grass, biting his lip and striking his flint again, a victorious grin lifting his features when a little spark found his kindling. “Hah! There. Bet that’s the fastest you’ve ever seen a fire lit.”

Volpe raised his eyebrows and snorted when the spark sputtered out. “Er. No. It was a good try, though.”

“God dammit…” Grumbling, Niccolò went at it again, raking a hand through his short hair.

Lowering himself onto the ground with a grunt, Volpe leaned his weight against the nearest tree, watching the youth struggle with the flint and steel. “So. Niccolò.”

“What?”

“You’ve never fucked a man before?”

The boy sighed and rolled his eyes skyward. “No, I haven’t. And, for the record, that was an abhorrent attempt at small talk and you should just go to sleep.”

“Can’t, I’m half starved and we don’t have a fire.”

“Oh, sod off.”

“But you must have been propositioned before. Firenze’s famous for that sort of thing.”

“I have. I just wasn’t interested.”

“You seemed plenty interested today,” Volpe said, keeping his tone light and mild, and smirked when Niccolò missed the flint by a wide margin. “You look good with a man on top of you. Maybe we can find someone in Pisa willing to—”

“Go fuck yourself.” Niccolò threw the flint and steel into the thief’s lap and walked away, heading toward his tethered horse.

“Wait—” Volpe scrambled to his feet, hurrying after the younger man. “ _Wait_ , I was only joking, Jesus!”

“You weren’t.” Niccolò pulled himself into the saddle, scowling down at Volpe when the thief snatched his reins. “Let go.”

“I’m sorry, alright? I’m sorry. I accept that what happened between us was an aberration. I’ll stop harassing you, I swear.”

“You’ve already made me promise you a kiss.”

“That’s just business. We can get it out of the way now, if you’d prefer.”

Niccolò continued to glare at him, but after a moment swung down from the saddle and circled his horse to stand before Volpe. “Fine. Do what you will.” So saying, he folded his arms across his chest and closed his eyes.

Volpe hesitated. “Er—are you certain?”

“Yes. Just get it over with.”

The thief still hovered, chewing on his lower lip, inexplicably nervous, and reached for the boy, cupping his jaw and brushing his thumb over the sweetly parted mouth. The touch must have been gentler than Niccolò expected, for he jumped and opened his eyes, looking down at the hand cradling his face and then back up at Volpe. For a moment, he seemed about to protest—and then he set his jaw and took a cautious step forward, leaning into the older man’s touch.

Volpe couldn’t breathe. He tried to tell himself that it was just a kiss, just a kiss like any other, but his heart seemed liable to crack his ribs. With careful deliberation he drew Niccolò closer, wrapped an arm around the slim waist and continued to stroke his mouth, licking his own lips. It was hard not to imagine that mouth on his cock, his hands in the short dark hair, fucking into the soft young throat—Volpe swallowed, forced those thoughts away.

With a last breath of warm air, he ducked his head and claimed Niccolò’s mouth with his own. For a moment, neither man moved, perhaps transfixed, and then Niccolò melted against him, mouth opening beautifully under his with a quiet moan that turned Volpe’s spine to liquid. Volpe had intended to ravage the boy, devour him, but their kiss was soft and cautious, and he couldn’t bring himself to ruin its sweetness.

Niccolò abruptly drew back, his breath a hot huff near Volpe’s mouth, and the thief feared it was over—and then the boy stepped closer, wrapped his arms around the older man and claimed his lips again. Volpe accepted him eagerly, thrusting his tongue into the warm mouth, tightening his grip on the boy’s jaw. It was good, caution turned hungry, and he growled, low and wanting, when Niccolò pushed him into the nearest tree, braced a hand above his head and deepened their kiss, invaded Volpe’s mouth with his own questing tongue, tasting him. Volpe let him have control, rolling his body against the boy’s in a long, slow wave, grinding on the wiry young frame. The movement was reciprocated eagerly, and Volpe grinned into the kiss when he felt the young man rutting against his thigh, rubbing his cock against the nearest source of friction.

And then the warmth of the boy’s mouth was gone; the weight of his body vanished. Volpe opened his eyes, breathing hard, staring at his younger companion. Niccolò looked like a cornered animal, his eyes wide. He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, panting, and turned away, grabbing his blanket off his saddle and heading toward the opposite end of the clearing.

“Niccolò?” Volpe hurried after him, reached to grab the boy’s shoulder.

“Don’t touch me.” The young man whirled around, jerking his arm out of Volpe’s grasp. “Don’t fucking touch me.”

“Niccolò, it’s… it’s okay.”

“It was just a kiss. It didn’t mean anything.”

“I know.” Volpe backed up a step, holding his hands up. “I know. It’s alright.”

Niccolò glared at him a moment longer, nostrils flared, before he nodded tersely and turned away, throwing his blanket out on the ground and curling up without another word, pulling it tight around his shoulders. Volpe followed suit, returning to the tree where he’d just been kissed breathless and making himself a cocoon, tugging his hood low over his eyes, trying to ignore the ache in his crotch.

He slept fitfully, waking every few hours until he blearily opened his eyes to see watery sunlight filtering through the trees. Stumbling a little, the thief got to his feet, stretching his sore legs, and headed to the edge of the trees for a piss. He was half-hard, a combination of last night’s excitement and the expected hardness of the morning. He sighed, looking down at himself and weighing his options. A low sound from the camp interrupted him. Tucking himself hurriedly back into his hose, he headed back into the trees, dropping to a crouch when he saw that Niccolò was awake and standing with his back to him.

Niccolò made the noise again, something between a sob and a groan, and Volpe froze, heat pooling low and tight in his abdomen. The boy was touching himself, one arm stretched to brace himself against a tree while he tugged on the length standing crudely at attention between his thighs. He pressed his mouth into his sleeve to muffle a cry, coming with harsh grunts and a jerk of his hips that made Volpe’s entire being clench with want. Breathing hard, Niccolò looked down at himself, at the mess he’d made on the tree, and covered his eyes with one hand, tightening his jaw.

Volpe slipped away, guilt and lust burning holes in his insides. He sat down at the edge of the stand and finished himself off in record time, thinking of nothing, because Niccolò’s obvious confusion and shame was enough to douse even the most brightly burning flames of passion.

They didn’t speak as they ate and saddled up. Niccolò took point, a slump in his shoulders. He propped a book open against the saddle and read in silence for a full two hours while Volpe amused himself by watching the clouds roll by.

“What are you reading?” he asked at length, when the sun had risen just enough to bake the back of his neck when his hood slipped.

Niccolò glanced back at him, his gaze wary. “Titus Livy.”

“The philosopher?”

“Mm.” Niccolò pulled on the reins and let Volpe draw near so he could hand him the book. “It was a gift from my father.”

Volpe nodded, accepting the volume and opening it in his lap. The leather cover was sleek and new, but the pages were worn and thin, every margin annotated with a neat scrawl. “Are these your notes?”

“Yes.”

The thief traced a finger down a column of writing; in some places Niccolò’s writing spilled onto the bottom of the page, squeezed into every corner so tightly it was barely legible. “You like politics? Well, I mean, that much was obvious, but… you study it intensely.”

“It interests me.”

“So it would seem.” Volpe handed the book back and offered up a hesitant smile. “Your hard work shows. You’ll be a great asset to the brotherhood.”

Niccolò shrugged, tucking the book back into his cloak. “We’ll see.”

“You’re still hesitant to join?”

“Who wouldn’t be?” The boy ran a hand over his hair. “I don’t… I don’t want to die. I mean, obviously I’m going to die someday.” He waved a hand, dismissive. “I don’t want to die young. I’m eighteen, for Christ’s sake.”

“We protect our own, you know. You’re not going to be thrown headlong into a battle with your dick in your hand.” Volpe regretted it the moment he said it—he’d been thinking, of course, about watching that beautiful boy come at his own touch, the way his jaw had flexed when he cried out, the look in his eyes—and the look Niccolò gave him could have set water aflame.

“Right. Good to know.” He snapped the reins and pulled ahead, leaving Volpe to kick himself.

They rode all day, and it was nearly dusk again when Pisa came into view, its great tower looming above the city walls. They swung down from the saddles at the gate, put up the horses at the stable for an exorbitant rate, and after answering several questions about the purpose of their visit (for which they gave fallacious answers), Niccolò and Volpe stepped into the city.

Niccolò paused, looking around as if he were trying to see everything at once, and Volpe couldn’t help but smile.

“Your first time in Pisa?”

“Yes,” the boy replied, perhaps a little embarrassed. “I’ve never had cause to come. You?”

“Once or twice.” A lie—Pisan pockets were easy to plunder, and he made rounds here whenever the people of Firenze lacked in funds. But Niccolò didn’t need to know that.

They found a cheap, dirty inn and were forced to take its single vacant room. Volpe froze when he opened the door to find only one bed within.

“I’ll, er, take the floor,” he said, indicating the corner.

“Don’t be ridiculous. We can share the bed—if you can keep your hands to yourself.”

The thief bridled at the hostility in the younger man’s tone. “I’m not an animal, boy.”

Niccolò turned to him with raised eyebrows. “Oh, no? La Volpe?”

“Shut up. I’ll not be trying to fuck anyone who doesn’t want it. And I’m not in the mood to touch an ungrateful little prick.” He dumped his bags and headed for the door. “Have a rest. I’m going to go have a look around.”

Niccolò threw himself onto the bed with a grumble, and Volpe departed, some of his irritation bleeding away when he stepped out into the cool air. The city felt lively and fresh, territory unconquered. He took to the rooftops, skating past the archers with ease, and climbed the highest watchtower he could find. Pisa sprawled beneath him, one of the many cities under Firenze’s rule, a Medici stronghold against the forces of the papal armies and southern kingdoms.

Volpe seated himself comfortably at the rooftop’s edge, eating the salami and cheese he’d brought along, listening to the merry sounds of the city. He liked his view and his quiet, and remained on the roof until the chilly descent of night forced him back down to the streets among the rabble and the common folk. He helped himself to a few souvernirs as he headed back to the inn, coming back with a silver chain in his hand. He had half a mind to give it to Niccolò—a peace offering of sorts—but came back to an empty room.

“The hell…” He stuck his head out into the hallway, whistling at his neighbor. “Hey—did you see my companion leave? Young lad, about yea high? Dark hair, skinny thing.”

“Yeah, I saw him.” An older man leaned out the door of his room, scratching his beard. “That dark fella came to call on him—didn’t catch a name.”

Dark…? Volpe frowned. “Which way did they go?”

“Out toward the northern gate, I think. Saw ‘em leaving as I was coming back.”

Volpe thanked them and left, unease curdling in his stomach, hurrying his pace. Did Niccolò know someone in Pisa? A friend, a lover? Wouldn’t he have mentioned them? At the very least, he was thrifty enough to try and get them lodging with a friend instead of at an inn…

The thief froze in his tracks, cold realization making his heart clench. A dark fellow in Pisa. It couldn’t be… it couldn’t be, could it? Not Fiora and Baltasar’s hound…

He spun on his heel, heading instead for the market. As in Firenze, it was a hot spot for thieves and low lifes, all potential informants. It took Volpe all of a half-hour’s hunt to find his target—a thin, malnourished thief with a rat-like face. He grabbed the man’s hand when it was halfway to a girl’s dress, twisting his arm behind his back and leaning in to speak directly into his prisoner’s ear.

“Don’t scream. Cry out and I’ll kill you.”

The rat-man quailed, trembling. “What do you want?”

“Il Lupo. Tell me where I can find him.”

“I don’t know—” The man muffled a cry when Volpe twisted his arm harder. “F-fuck! He has a hideout somewhere in the western quarter—h-hidden! That’s all I fucking know, please!”

“Take me.”

The pickpocket led him out of the market, looking at him over his thin shoulder as they approached the western edge of town. They stopped outside a dilapidated watch tower; the rat-man indicated the front door nervously.

“Some seen him coming in and out of here.”

Volpe nodded. “Go. Get out of here.”

The pickpocket did as he was told, scrambling away almost on all fours, leaving the thief to his investigation. Volpe wasted no time in scouting the tower, running his hands along its walls. There was a recessed entrance at the back, a little latch that presumably opened up into a tunnel. He pulled his dagger from his belt and kicked the latch open, jimmied himself through, and dropped. The tunnel was short, four meters at most, and he crawled through with ease.

He emerged in a darkened room, lit dimly by two torches on the wall. He remained crouched low to the ground, blinking until his vision adjusted. There was no doubt he was in a criminal’s den; he was powerfully reminded of his own lair, cluttered with the tools of his trade, dossiers about targets, maps of the city from every angle.

He circled the room at a crouch, moving toward the furthest end, pausing when he heard what sounded like a muffled groan. Picking up his pace, he darted forward, and his heart nearly stopped when he caught sight of the body trussed up in the corner.

“Oh, fuck.” He sprinted the last few feet, dropping to his knees and rolling the boy onto his back. “Niccolò…”

The young man didn’t respond. His arms were bound tight behind his back, a gag knotted at the base of his neck. Volpe cut it free, cradling Niccolò’s head in his lap and giving him a hard shake.

“Say something, open your eyes. Niccolò.”

The boy turned his head into Volpe’s hand and groaned. The thief caught sight of a smear of red across his brow.

“Mn… Volpe.”

“Here, I’m here.” The older man leaned closer. “What happened? Who did this?”

“Don’t…” Niccolò’s eyelids fluttered. “I don’t…”

Volpe frowned, pulling a cut of linen from his cloak and pressing it to the weeping wound on the boy’s forehead. “Did they drug you?”

Niccolò nodded, unable to respond; he seemed short of breath, his skin hot to the touch, flushed.

“An aphrodisiac.”

A voice from across the room made Volpe jump, and he swore at himself internally; he never should have let himself be distracted. He scrambled to his feet, hiding his dagger, standing in front of Niccolò.

“Lupo.”

The man stepped forward, his eyes dark and glittering beneath the edge of his hood, his cruel mouth twisted up into a grin that would have well suited the animal for which he was named.

“I was thinking of having a little fun with him later. Is he a good fuck, Volpe?”

Volpe tightened his grip on his dagger. “If you’ve half a brain, you’ll let us leave. Now.”

Lupo tutted, stepping closer, a cinquedea glittering in his hand. “A mixture of ambergris and pois mascate does the trick, I find. A little cantarella, too, just a touch, to render the victim weaker.” The master criminal stopped and smiled, picking at his nails with his knife. “I dislike it when they fight too much. Like that one, there—had to knock him out before he’d settle down.”

“I’ll kill you,” Volpe spat, baring his teeth. “If you touched him—”

“I did. A little. Nothing too involved, I’m a busy man.” Lupo lifted his cinquedea, indicating the boy lying on the ground. “Go ahead. Fuck him a little. Do it and I’ll let you go.”

Volpe dropped to his knees and cut the ropes binding Niccolò’s arms, gave him another shake. “Niccolò. You need to go.”

The boy didn’t respond, or couldn’t—it didn’t matter which. His breathing was hitched and forced, one hand clutching at his chest while he curled in on himself. Volpe swore and glared up at Lupo, who was approaching him with small, calculated steps. There was nothing for it, then. They’d have to fight their way out of this.

Lupo, too, seemed to have tired of waiting. He lunged forward without warning, and Volpe sprang up to meet him, knocking his arm aside and swinging his dagger up toward the other man’s ribs. Lupo dodged backwards, his feet sure and steady, and the foot he brought upwards caught Volpe in the side of the head, knocking him into a nearby desk. He slid to the ground, blinking stars from his eyes, and rolled away just in time to avoid the cinquedea that came down toward his head.

He staggered to his feet and parried Lupo’s thrust, driving his dagger home into the man’s arm and wrenching it free, satisfied by Lupo’s snarl of pain. The criminal’s next kick caught him in the gut, and Volpe went to his knees, the breath knocked from his lungs, and not a moment later the toe of Lupo’s boot hit his jaw, sending him sprawling backwards.

And then Lupo released a howl—Volpe dragged his head up to see Niccolò with both hands wrapped around the hilt of a stiletto plunged deep into Lupo’s calf, panting with the exertion. Lupo kicked him off, advanced on him, and Volpe lunged forward, grabbing the larger man’s ankle and pulling. Lupo went down hard, roaring when Volpe jumped on top of him and began raining blows on his exposed face and neck.

“Go!” he shouted at Niccolò, aiming a punch at Lupo’s throat that was blocked only just in time. “Get out—”

He broke off, his breath leaving him in a hitched gasp. Something sharp and searing spread through his abdomen, and the pain that followed was so intense he fell to the ground, gasping, his hands searching—the handle of the cinquedea stuck out from his side—

“No—” He coughed around blood, arching his head back, reaching helplessly for Niccolò when Lupo got to his feet and advanced on the boy. “No—dammit, _no_ —!”

Lupo grinned, took Niccolò’s jaw in his hand and brought Volpe’s knife up above his head. He plunged it downward, into Niccolò’s stomach with a sick thud, and Volpe felt all of his breath leave him, his mind going blank—

The criminal brought his knife back out, turned to grin at the blade, and balked when it came out clean. “What the…”

“Not quite.” Niccolò pulled his Titus Livy out of his shirt and swung it into Lupo’s head with what must have been the last of his strength. The man went down, swearing and cradling his forehead, falling silent when Niccolò hit him again, and again, until dark blood stained the book’s cover.

The boy scrambled backwards, panting, clutching the thick volume to his chest. After a few panicked moments he whirled around and crawled toward his fallen comrade.

“Volpe.”

The thief blinked, squinting up at him. Niccolò swallowed audibly, lifting trembling hands and placing them on Volpe’s abdomen, not quite touching the hilt of the blade.

“H-Hold on. I’ll get help. It’s alright.” His hand slid into Volpe’s hair. “You’re alright.”

Volpe smiled, lifting a hand to cradle Niccolò’s face. “Beautiful boy. Are you hurt? Did he hurt you?”

“I’m fine. I’m fine.” Niccolò caught his hand and squeezed it. “I’ll be right back. Okay? I’ll be back for you, I swear.”

“Why did you go with him?”

“He said you were wounded. He said you needed my help. I’m sorry, I know I was an idiot, I just—I’m sorry—”

“Shh.” Volpe shook his head. “Shh, Niccolò. I’m just glad you’re safe. You’re a treasure, you know. To your family, to the brotherhood. To me.” He smiled, brushed a thumb along the boy’s dirty cheek. “ _Tesoro_.”

“V-Volpe—Volpe, don’t—”

The thief rested his head back, let his eyes fall closed, and listened to the roaring in his ears.

 

\---

 

He heard voices—the whispers, perhaps, of the dead, calling him. For a while he lay still, listening to them, waiting to hear his name. Something cool and wet touched his brow. Dying seemed to be taking a long time.

“...in Pisa?”

“A family matter. Don’t worry about it.”

“Well, I’m worried.”

The voices were getting louder. Clearer. He could make out their words now, but it was like listening to a conversation through water.

“...happened?”

“It was just a thief. A street rat.”

“Mm. The _dottore_ said you were in a bad state. He said you looked like you’d been drugged.”

“Well, he was mistaken.”

...Niccolò. Was that Niccolò? Oh, God, what he wouldn’t give to see that boy once more. Kiss that sweet mouth again, feel that strong young body on his. He’d never wanted anyone the way he wanted the prodigal Machiavelli. Never.

“Is he coming round?”

“Maybe…”

Warmth on his cheeks—someone’s hands?

“Volpe. Do you hear me?”

He tried to speak, tried to make a noise. Perhaps he grunted.

“Water, Marcello, quickly.”

The world spun; he felt an arm around his shoulders, a tight pain in his gut that made him gasp. And then it was Niccolò’s voice, he knew it with certainty, asking him to drink. He tasted it, cold and clear, and it made his head swim.

Volpe opened his eyes. Niccolò’s concerned face morphed into view, stretching into a grin when Volpe blinked and squinted at him.

“You’re back.”

“...I’m back.” Volpe tried to sit up and stopped with a groan, wrapping an arm around his middle.

“Don’t, you’re hurt—lie still, I’ve got you.” Niccolò lowered him back to the bed, pushing his hair back from his brow. “Do you remember what happened?”

“...Il Lupo. He had you.” Volpe rubbed a hand over his eyes.

“Il Lupo?” A man stepped toward the bed, scowling at Niccolò. “Not the murderer, surely?”

“Er.” Niccolò winced and ran a hand through his hair. “Well, I mean, some might call him—”

“Oh, for the love of _God_ , Machia!”

“This is my friend, Marcello Adriani,” Niccolò said, speaking over the older man’s swearing and smiling apologetically down at Volpe. “He helped get you back here last night.”

“How did you…?”

“I found a doctor, told him my name. He’d just seen Marcello that morning. We were lucky.” Niccolò glanced up at his friend. “Marcello, would you leave us for a moment?”

“Yes, yes—I’ll find us breakfast, then,” the man grumbled, and left, slamming the door closed behind him.

Volpe sat up with difficulty, clutching the wound in his side, and reached for Niccolò, cupping his jaw. “Are you sure you’re alright? He didn’t—that monster meant to rape you.”

“He didn’t.” Niccolò shrugged the hand away, eyes downcast. “I’m fine.”

“Your head…?”

“It doesn’t hurt. You’re the one who nearly died.”

Volpe grunted, running a hand through his hair. “I’m sorry. I knew il Lupo had been seen in Pisa, I never should have come. I put you in danger.”

“How do you know him?”

The thief waved a dismissive hand. “How do any two criminals know one another? We’ve had clashes over territory. He’s a Templar imbibed with an assassin’s skills. He hates our kind.”

“That’s the sort of man I’ll have to combat, then. As a member of the brotherhood.”

“Unfortunately.” Volpe wanted to reach for the boy, touch him, confirm with his own hands that the young man was unhurt. “Niccolò, come here.”

“Why?”

“Let me kiss you.”

Niccolò looked up at him, uncertain, his eyes wary. He edged forward, slid a knee onto the bed until he and Volpe were almost nose to nose. Volpe cradled his jaw again, ran his hand around to cup the back of the young man’s neck and pull him close. The moment their mouths touched was sweeter than anything he could have imagined. This time Volpe was careful, gentle, trepid even when Niccolò’s tongue swept out to caress his.

“...Mm.” Niccolò drew back, his mouth wet, and licked his lips. “What’s wrong?”

“I don’t want to frighten you.” Volpe leaned close and kissed him again, slow and soft. “I don’t want to frighten myself. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want you, Niccolò.”

The boy hummed, his grey eyes searching. “What did you call me? Back there, where Lupo had me.”

“Ah.” Volpe lowered his gaze. “ _Tesoro_.”

Niccolò canted his head to the side, considering, and leaned close. “Again.”

“What?”

“Call me that again.”

The thief blinked, lifting a hand to smooth it through the boy’s tousled hair. “ _Tesoro_ …”

And Niccolò kissed him, mumbling against his mouth, sliding a hand up the thief’s chest to curl into his wild tangle of hair. Volpe wrapped an arm around the boy’s waist and rolled him over, ignoring the pain in his side, and pressed him into the bed, kissing him warm and deep, until his lungs burned with want of air.

“Volpe.”

“Gilberto.” The thief closed his eyes and nuzzled his mouth against Niccolò’s throat. “My name is Gilberto.”

A hesitant hand slid into his hair again, tugging his face back up so they could kiss. “...Gilberto.”

“Yes?”

Niccolò bit his lip, caressed Volpe’s mouth, and shifted a little further down on the bed, taking the thief’s face in his hands. “Don’t stop.”

Volpe smiled and obliged him, their kiss like fire. He heard the door open—Marcello returning—and, after a moment’s pause, close again, leaving them alone.

  
  



	4. On Touch and Reality

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Men in general judge more by the sense of sight than by the sense of touch, because everyone can see but few can test by feeling. Everyone sees what you seem to be, few know what you really are; and those few do not dare take a stand against the general opinion.” 
> 
> -The Prince, Chapter XVIII: In What Way Princes Must Keep Faith

“You don’t have to do this.”

“On the contrary. You fulfilled your end of our deal, and I shall fulfill mine.”

Niccolò sighed, jogging to keep up with Volpe’s wide strides. “Yes, but then I got myself kidnapped and you saved my ass, so we can call it even. Besides, you’re injured, and—”

“Niccolò.” The thief turned on his heel, silencing the boy with a wide smile. “Your concern is touching, but I’m feeling very well. Are we going the right way?”

“Yes,” Niccolò said, ruffled, and groaned when Volpe resumed his brisk pace. “Gilber- _to_.”

“Ack, not in public, not in public!”

“Sorry…”

After two days abed, Volpe had decided to make good on his promise, and complete the work that had brought them to Pisa to begin with—the complete and utter clobbering of one Francesco Vernacci, Primavera’s idiot husband. Niccolò appreciated the thief’s effort, he did, but Volpe was unwell, his face still too pale and too gaunt. Biting his lip, Niccolò took hold of the fluttering orange cape without thinking.

“What’s wrong?”

He looked up, found those violet eyes too close to his. “N-Nothing. Sorry.”

“Mm.” Volpe’s gaze softened a little, and he reached up to touch Niccolò’s face very briefly. “Stay close.”

“I’m not a child.”

“Of course not.”

Niccolò tucked his hands into his pockets, dogging Volpe’s heels as they headed toward the business district. They both wore swords openly on their belts; il Lupo had friends and comrades in the city, Volpe said, who would undoubtedly be raring for a bit of vengeance.

“Should I have killed him?”

“Who?”

“Il Lupo.”

Volpe hummed, pulling his hood lower over his eyes. “Maybe. But what’s done is done. No point in ruminating on it now. Besides, you’re not an assassin yet. No one outside our order should shoulder the responsibility of taking Templar lives.”

“Our order?” Niccolò drew level with the older man, grinning at him. “You’ve been referring to yourself as one of the brotherhood, Volpe. Maybe having second thoughts about your stray cat status?”

“Hush.” He pushed the smirking face away, frowning when Niccolò laughed. “You’re in high spirits today.”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing. I’m just used to seeing you scowling about something or other.” Niccolò jumped when a hand squeezed his ass. “Perhaps the magic in my kisses has rejuvenated you?”

“Shut up—and don’t grope me in public!”

“In private, then?”

“No!” Niccolò sidestepped the hand that reached for him, his cheeks burning when Volpe grinned at him. “You’re insufferable.”

“Obviously not—for here you are, suffering my presence.”

For some reason. Niccolò acquiesced to walking at the thief’s side, keeping a wary eye on those wandering hands. He had known la Volpe for four days. Just four. Practically a heartbeat. Yet already he couldn’t imagine life without him. His sudden and profound attachment irritated Niccolò to no end, but he didn’t see any way of kicking it, short of cutting himself off from Volpe entirely.

“You know you glare when you’re thinking very hard?”

“What?” Niccolò looked up, flinching when Volpe poked him between his brows. “Ow, what was that for?”

“You’ll develop wrinkles if you worry too much.”

“Thank you for that warning, I’ll bear it in mind.”

“No, you won’t.” Volpe smiled, giving Niccolò’s ear a tug. “Why don’t you come to bed with me tonight?”

“No, thank you.”

“Why not? You’ll finally be able to sate your curiosity about being with a man, and I’ll be able to say I bedded the most brilliant boy in Firenze.”

“Be still, my beating heart.”

“It doesn’t have to be my prick in your ass, you know. I’ll let you fuck me one.”

“How charitable of you.” Niccolò stopped, examining a sign on a nearby building. “We’re here. Francesco does business in this palazzo.”

“I see. And he’ll be due out when?”

“It’s getting late—no more than an hour, I should think.”

“Very well.” Volpe turned to him, placing a hand on his shoulder. “I think you should go.”

“What?” Niccolò frowned and shook his head. “I’m staying.”

“I don’t think you’ll want to see this,” the thief said, his voice low and serious, all trace of gentle teasing gone.

“Why? You’re not—you won’t—”

“Kill him? No. Not unless that’s what you want.”

Niccolò ran a hand through his hair. “No, I—I won’t leave Giovanni fatherless. But I think I should stay. Francesco needs to know why this is happening—for what he’s being punished.”

“You want him to see you?”

The boy chewed on his nail, thinking. “Yes. I do.”

Volpe looked at him a moment longer, his expression unreadable, and nodded at length. “Alright. We’ll find a place to watch the entrance and follow him when he comes out.” He swivelled on his heel, squinting against the bright sunlight at the surrounding buildings. “Ah. There.” He pointed, indicating a terrace on the rooftops. “Up there.”

“Way up there? Are you sure? Your wound—”

“I’ll race you.” Volpe took off, running straight up a pile of boxes and leaping onto the metal framework of a hanging garden, leaving Niccolò to chase after him or be left behind.

The thief’s grace was peerless, and he appeared unwinded when Niccolò reached the terrace, gasping for breath. Volpe shot him that wide, white grin, his violet eyes catching in the sunlight.

“You need more training.”

“Oh, shut up.” Niccolò threw himself down, lying back with a long sigh as his breath steadied. He knew it was coming before it happened, and he lay still and quiet when Volpe’s mouth descended on his, let himself be kissed. It was good. He almost hated to admit how delicious their kisses were, the way heat pooled in his abdomen and his breath catch high and tight in his chest.

The wanting. The wanting almost hurt. It was dangerous, distracting.

“Mn—stop. Volpe.” He pushed the man back with one hand on his chest, panting. “ _Stop_.”

“What?”

“Is this wrong?”

The thief arched an eyebrow, smiling. “You don’t strike me as the type to worry about such things.”

Niccolò chewed on his lower lip, touching the older man’s face and sliding his fingers into the dark rivulets of hair. “I’m not. But a lover at this junction would be—”

“A lover?” Volpe’s eyebrows seemed almost in danger of disappearing into his hairline. “How can we be lovers before we’ve even gone to bed together?”

Niccolò scowled, pushing the thief off and sitting up. “What, am I of no consequence until that time?”

“No. You know I don’t mean it like that.” Volpe shook his head, catching Niccolò up in his arms and leaning in close to nip at the side of his neck. “It is fresh and new, this thing between us. It’s only natural to be afraid.”

“I’m not afraid. Not of anything—certainly not of you.”

The thief chuckled. “I’m not so fearsome. But love, perhaps—love is worth fearing.”

“You should be more mindful of your words.” Niccolò wriggled free, pushing the older man’s hands away.

“I know it’s too early to speak of love, but—”

“There he is!”

“What?”

“Francesco—there.” Niccolò dropped to his stomach and crawled to the edge of the terrace, grinding his teeth at the sight of his brother-in-law. Francesco was handsome and well-built, with hair yellow  as straw and a wide, charming smile. Niccolò had never really cared for the man, and now he all but drowned in disdain.

“Ah—that silly thing?” Volpe crouched by his shoulder, watching the man with dark eyes as Francesco shook hands with his associates and headed down the road. “Alright. We’ll tail him for a bit, see if he wanders somewhere secluded. Stay close.”

They kept to the rooftops, avoiding the guards and taking care to keep Francesco in sight. He appeared to be making casual rounds about the city, stopping to chat with the courtesans that loitered on street corners and outside shops.

“Stop grinding your teeth,” Volpe hissed, jerking an elbow back into Niccolò’s ribs.

“Sorry. Christ.”

“I’m the one who deserves an apology.”

Niccolò glared at the back of the thief’s head and deliberately unclenched his jaw. “ _Sorry_.”

Luck, it seemed, was on their side; Francesco bought himself a bit of bread and cheese and made for the outskirts of town, settling down on a bench near a remote little garden to eat. Beckoning to his companion, Volpe dropped into a nearby alley, crouching low to the ground and approaching his target as stealthily as his namesake animal. Niccolò followed him closely, his heart thundering against his ribs.

“Last chance to turn back.”

He shook his head. “Do it.”

Volpe nodded and closed the distance between himself and Francesco. In one swift movement, he looped an arm around the young man’s neck and dragged him to his feet, turning him around to face Niccolò.

“Wh—wh—” Francesco clawed at the arm pressed against his throat, his eyes wide and glistening, gasping for air like a guppy. “Ni—Nic—”

Niccolò stared at him, tried to find some sympathy for the panicked man, and found none. There was a roaring in his ears as loud as any thunderclap. How scared Primavera must have felt. How helpless. This man had stripped her of her independence, her agency, taken her from the family who loved her, laid his filthy hands on her.

“Take care of him,” he said to Volpe, his tone low and soft. “Make him pay.”

Volpe wasted no time. He threw the young man to the ground and threw a vicious kick into his side, making Francesco curl up on his side. His second blow was more calculated, more decisive; he lifted his heel, angled it carefully, and drove it into Francesco’s ribs. The resultant crack almost made Niccolò wince—almost.

Francesco was screaming, his legs flailing. He’d pissed in his pants. “ _Niccolò_! Please! F-Fuck—!”

The thief dropped to his knees, drove the heel of his hand hard into Francesco’s broken rib and smiled when the man began to sob. Niccolò watched him, took in the sight of that cruel twist of the mouth that had only shown him tenderness. He let his gaze drop to his boots, and watched his shadow grow tall and long while Volpe carried out his vicious justice.

They left Francesco in a bloody, simpering heap, walking side by side back to the inn in silence. Niccolò felt Volpe’s eyes on him and ignored him with careful diligence. He couldn’t quite name the feeling coiled in his breast. It wasn’t satisfaction. It was an honorable thing, to protect one’s sister, but he didn’t feel like a good man.

Because he hadn’t protected her. He slowed to a halt, staring at his boots, ignoring Volpe’s soft inquiry. Primavera had been hurt by the man entrusted with her care and wellbeing. She had run home to her family, too afraid to show her wounds even to the little brother who loved her.

“Niccolò.” Volpe took him by the shoulders. “It’s alright. Vengeance is a hollow thing. But he won’t lay a hand on your sister again. I can almost guarantee that.”

“We should have killed him. That _would_ be a guarantee.”

Volpe canted his head to the side, his violet gaze soft. “She’s your sister. It’s up to you.”

No. He wouldn’t do it. Niccolò knew that already. For better or worse, his poor sister was bound to that fool. He was the only husband she would ever have, and he was the father of her little son. He shook his head and removed Volpe’s hands, leading the way back to the inn.

The bed was cold. He sank down and shucked his boots, pulling up the coverlet over his head, seeking solace in the dark. The mattress groaned when Volpe’s weight burdened it.

“Niccolò. Talk to me, _tesoro_.”

“I had you beat a defenseless man.”

“Yes.”

“I acted as judge and executioner. I did a vicious thing in the name of love.”

“Mm. You did.” Volpe tugged the coverlet down, slid a hand into Niccolò’s hair.

“Is that evil?”

“I don’t know. Your intentions were good.”

“And yet, _si guarda al fine_.”

“I’m sorry?”

“One looks to the end.”

Volpe hummed. “The ends justify the means.”

“No. That’s an oversimplification.”

“Oh?”

Niccolò sat up, looking down at the languidly stretched Volpe with a sigh. “Suppose we consider that there is but one dichotomy in intent—good and evil. Moral and immoral. If both paths can be used to achieve the same end, then certainly one must pursue the good path. But morality is a tricky business, and true goodness is difficult to find and harder to achieve—if it were otherwise, it would not be so highly valued, yes?” Niccolò ran a hand through his hair, frowning down at his knees. “If one becomes too distracted by questions of good  and evil, the desired result will surely never come to pass. In the end, if he fails to achieve his objective, is that not even more detrimental than an objective achieved through evil means?”

Volpe stared at him, his face cradled in one hand. “I don’t understand any of that.”

Niccolò laughed and laid back down, folding his arms behind his head. “Spend a little more time in books, Gilberto.”

“I haven’t the time to spare.” The older man propped himself up on an elbow, licking his lips. “Your premise seems sound, but is it not circumstantial?”

“Is it?” Niccolò waved a hand. “The classic thought experiment, then. A man is out walking when he sees a rider atop a horse, galloping toward a group of three travellers. The man has enough time to race forward and startled the horse, causing it to change paths. If he does so, however, the horse will trample a single traveller walking nearby. In this case, what is the most moral thing to do?”

“Surely it’s evil to take action that will cause a death.”

“Yet his inaction will lead to three deaths. So here is where the end is more important than the means. If he takes evil action, one person shall die. If he abides by evil inaction, three people shall die. Is one life lost less evil than three? And surely the one who suffers most is the man who must live with the consequences of his decision.”

“Not the rider?”

Niccolò shrugged. “The rider is an instrument of fate.”

“Maybe. But no matter what happens, he is a killer.” Volpe slid a hand through Niccolò’s hair, tilting his head back. “I’m going to kiss you now, if you’re agreeable.”

The boy laughed, catching the thief’s hand. “You entirely lack a sense of spontaneity.”

“I can’t help myself. You’re here talking, looking lovelier and lovelier with every word, and here I am struggling not to make you mine.”

“You talk too much.”

“Such hypocrisy.”

Niccolò grinned, let himself be pulled into a deep kiss, Volpe’s tongue licking into his mouth in a way that was as lewd as it was enticing. He clung to the older man, arched his hips into Volpe’s and panted when the thief ground down against him.

“I want you.” Volpe’s words were a hot whisper against Niccolò’s lips, slow and tantalizing. “I want you so badly, _tesoro_.”

The boy ran both hands through Volpe’s hair, bit his lips and arched hard up into the hand that cupped him between his legs, and made a choice, then and there. “Then take me.”

And Volpe _growled_ , a sound low and needy in the bottom of his throat, a sound that turned the blood in Niccolò’s veins to liquid fire. The thief sat back on his knees and pulled off his  cape and shirt, leaving the broad expanse of his torso bare. Niccolò froze beneath him, breathing hard, reaching out to cautiously trail his fingertips up Volpe’s sides, tripping a little over the linen bandages around his abdomen, tracing scars white as marble in the fading sunlight.

“You’re beautiful,” he said, awestruck. He’d never found a man beautiful before, but there was pure poetry in Volpe’s body, rivers and wars and starstruck lovers.

The thief purred and bent to kiss him, licking a soft, heated path down Niccolò’s throat and exhaling against the arch of his collarbone. “Your turn.” One hand pushed the boy’s shirt up, gathering the fabric at the base of his throat before tugging it over his head.

Niccolò shook it loose, settling back against the pillows and looking up at his bedmate. He meant to ask how he looked, but Volpe seemed entranced, mirroring the lingering touches Niccolò had placed on his body. He was more deliberate, more practiced, his fingertips mapping paths that made Niccolò’s hair stand on end, low exhales becoming breathy gasps too quickly for his liking. No woman had ever made him feel this way. He somewhat suspected that not just any man could do so, either—there was something about Volpe. About Gilberto. Something raw and primal between them that begged to be sated.

“Mm. A lion, I think.”

“What?”

Volpe smiled indulgently, brushing his thumbs over Niccolò’s nipples and purring when the young man arched up into his touch. “I was just thinking about what animal you might be, and I think a lion suits you. Just a cub, of course, but you’ll learn how to use those fangs someday.”

“Half of what you say strikes me as nonsense.” Niccolò tipped his head back, scarcely able to breathe. Volpe’s touch was searing. “Your mouth…”

“Hm?”

“Will you…”

The thief canted his head to the side, his grin widening. “Ah. You’re adorably inarticulate when you’re in bed, you know.” He stretched out atop the younger man, tipping Niccolò’s chin back and lowering his mouth to the vulnerable throat.

Niccolò let his eyes fall closed, gave himself over to that sweet assault of lips and teeth on his skin. Volpe’s tongue flicked out, wet and soft, soothing away the sting of love bites, tracing Niccolò’s pulse up to his jaw and then to his ear, nipping at the shell.

“Ah, Christ.” Niccolò flinched away when he was bit again, scowling. “You don’t have to take your moniker so literally, you know.”

“You don’t like the biting, _tesoro_?” Volpe drew back and smiled down at him, smarmy and satisfied. “I shall work to change your opinion on the matter.” Niccolò had opened his mouth to protest when hands slid down to his hips, sliding beneath the waistband of his trousers. “May I remove these?”

“...Oh.” Niccolò bit his lip, placing his hands on Volpe’s wrists. “I suppose, um, those will have to go.”

“Is that a yes?”

“Yes…” Niccolò wanted to slap himself. He sounded like a virgin on her wedding night, but the heat of Volpe’s gaze stripped away his confidence. He was the one about to be taken, about to be fucked. There was no question of that.

Cool air touched his thighs. It wasn’t the first time Volpe had seen his cock, but Niccolò still felt himself blushing while the thief appraised him, hands caressing the full length of his legs while his trousers were slid down and away, left abandoned at the end of the bed.

“There we are.” Volpe sat back on his heels, rubbing a hand over his mouth. “Oh, God, _tesoro_. Look at you.”

Niccolò shifted, self-conscious, watching the thief watching him. “Um. Do you want to…?”

“Oh, no. No, no. Don’t worry about me, not yet.” Volpe returned to touching him, leaning down to dip his tongue into Niccolò’s navel. The boy stiffened, hips growing restless as that sinful tongue ventured south, stopping just short of where its attentions were most needed. “Shall I?”

“Yes,” Niccolò said, breathless, and coiled a hand into Volpe’s dark curls when that mouth sank down on his cock. “Oh, fuck. _Fuck_. Deeper.”

The thief obliged him, wasted no time in taking his full length, moaning around him. Niccolò bit his lip until he drew blood, dragging his hand through Volpe’s hair, pushing it back from his face so he could watch the older man swallow his cock. It was a struggle to keep his hips still, not to fuck into that wet warmth and spill down Volpe’s throat. Niccolò dropped back against the pillows, bringing both hands up to his face, struggling to steady his breath.

“Mm.” Volpe came back up with a gasp, his breath hot and damp on Niccolò’s straining length. “You are allowed to come, you know.”

“Not yet,” Niccolò mumbled, almost incoherent. “I don’t want to yet.”

Volpe chuckled, licked the boy from base to tip and laved his tongue around the head. Niccolò could feel the smirk against his skin. “You’re so pretty when you’re flustered.”

“I’ve already told you I’ve no interest in being—” Niccolò stopped, silenced by the thumb that rubbed against his lips. “What…”

“Shh.” Volpe sat up, straddled the boy’s hips, and brought Niccolò’s hands to his own warm crotch, bucking into the touch. “I’m sorry, _tesoro_ , I need—”

“Oh—of course—” Niccolò pushed himself up on an elbow, hesitating a little before rubbing the bulge between Volpe’s legs. He’d never touched another man before, not like this, but Volpe’s soft moan was all the encouragement he’d ever need. He pulled down the thief’s hose, struck speechless when a hard cock sprang free, red and swollen and proud against Volpe’s stomach.

“Well?” Volpe slid a hand into the younger man’s hair, tugging him closer.

“I don’t…” Niccolò swallowed, cautiously taking the length in his hand. “I don’t know how.”

“I’ll show you. Lie back.”

Niccolò did as he was told—somewhat petulantly—and shivered when Volpe crawled up his body, leaving hot little kisses that almost burned against his skin before he gripped the headboard and positioned his hips over the boy’s face, taking his own cock in his hand and giving it two long, hard pumps before pulling it down, bringing the head to Niccolò’s lips. Niccolò opened his mouth almost on instinct, anchoring his hands on Volpe’s hips and groaning softly as he took the thief, the sensation strange and foreign against his tongue, though not unwelcome.

“Oh, fuck. There.” Volpe lowered his head between his braced hands, panting quietly, impatient little jerks threatening to dislodge his hips. “Mm, there you go. Do what feels natural. Do—ah, fuck!” He broke off with a gasping little laugh, lowering a hand to caress Niccolò’s flexing jaw. “Damn, but you’re a fast learner.”

Niccolò hummed back at him, sucking hard around the cock in his mouth and digging his fingers into Volpe’s ass, pulling him closer. He liked this. There was an element of power in this, though he knew it was but another act of penetration. He couldn’t imagine a more precarious position, however, than having one’s cock in another man’s mouth, and he rather liked his newfound influence. He scraped his teeth along the bottom edge of the head to test his point, and resisted the urge to smile when Volpe made a tiny little sound that almost bordered on scared.

“Fuck, fuck, stop.” Volpe drew back suddenly, grabbing himself hard at the base of his member and squeezing. “Fuck. I almost came.”

“You are allowed, you know,” Niccolò murmured, trailing a fingertip along his own length and shooting the thief a wide grin.

“Not down your throat, not our first time.” The older man lowered himself back to the bed, leaning in to kiss Niccolò with soft intent. “Roll over.”

“What?”

“On your hands and knees.”

Niccolò hesitated, another gentle kiss bolstering his courage, and he did as he was asked. Volpe’s hand was on his mouth again, two fingers touching his lips and parting them. Niccolò grunted, opened his mouth, felt the pads of the thief’s rough fingers turn slick and wet against his tongue. Volpe’s cock was pressed against his ass, the gentle pumping of the older man’s hips grinding them together.

“Spit won’t be enough, will it?” Niccolò asked when the fingers withdrew, moaning quietly when they massaged up against his entrance. “Oh, _fuck_.”

“No, I’ll use oil. Don’t worry. Does that feel good?”

“Yes…” Niccolò winced, circled his hips to push his ass against that touch, too much and not enough all at once. “More.”

Volpe hummed, pressed a few soft kisses to the younger man’s shoulder and rubbed the tenderness behind his testicles, a smile curving his features when Niccolò groaned outright and jerked against him. “You like it here, hm? You mewled like a kitten when I touched you here before.”

“Y—hngh—Volpe—”

The thief shushed him, circled his hand around the twisting hips to take hold of the proud young cock begging for his attention. He fumbled for the bottle he’d pulled out with his free hand, popping it open and pouring it out along his erection, pumping himself before grinding up against Niccolò’s ass, slicking his hole.

“I’m going to use my fingers first. Alright? The better you’re stretched, the less uncomfortable it will be.”

Niccolò nodded, beyond words, and released a shuddering breath when he felt two fingers enter him, rubbing against his inner walls and stimulating want he’d never known. “O-Oh, _God_. That’s…”

“Does it hurt?”

“No. No, it’s… fuck.” Niccolò dropped his head onto his arms, pushing back into Volpe’s hand. “It’s good.”

“Mm. Slick enough?”

“Faster, damn it.”

The thief chuckled, grabbing Niccolò’s cock again and teasing him with slow, gentle strokes even while he upped the thrusting of his fingers, going deeper and longer, searching for the sweet little swelling that would be the key to his lover’s pleasure.

“Ah!” Niccolò arched, fists tightening in the sheets. “ _Ah_ —what’s—”

“It’s good there, yes?” Volpe rubbed the spot again, sucking on Niccolò’s skin until he bruised while the boy cried out. “When I stroke that with my cock—again—and again—while you’re all hot and slick… well. It’ll be goddamn near magical, I promise.”

“S-So do it already.”

“If you’re ready?”

“Yes, I’m fucking ready!”

Niccolò pressed his forehead into the pillows, sucking in deep lungfuls of air when he felt the wet head of Volpe’s cock at his rear, felt it drag up and down the heat between his legs before pushing against his hole, just barely breaching him. It didn’t hurt, but it was strange. Volpe’s hips flexed, and Niccolò released a stuttered gasp when the head of the thief’s cock slipped past his rim. He closed his eyes, breathing hard. Volpe was inside him. Inside him. There was another man inside him, and he’d never been harder in his entire fucking life.

“Are you alright?”

And hell if said man wasn’t the most concerned lover on the entire planet.

“I’m fine.” Niccolò looked back over his shoulder, reached a shaking hand around to briefly touch Volpe’s face. “You can move, Gilberto.”

Volpe wasted no time. He placed one hand on Niccolò’s hip on the other on his shoulder and pulled the boy back, watched the strong young body engulf his cock, closed his eyes and resisted the urge to pound in when Niccolò cried out, his wiry frame jerking hard against his lover.

“Shh… well done, _tesoro_. A little more, now, nearly there.” Volpe thrust in, panting, rubbing Niccolò’s lower back. “Ah. Oh, fuck. Fuck, you’re tight. How does it feel?”

“Deep.” Niccolò’s head hung between his braced arms. “Ungh. That’s it, it’s just… deep.”

Volpe cooed and rubbed his ass, squeezed his cock. “You’re doing beautifully. Are you ready for the actual fucking?”

Niccolò released a breathless little laugh. “I suppose.”

“Good.” Volpe drew his hips back, waited a moment, watched the tight young body cling to his cock, and then fucked back in, relishing the boy’s hard gasp. “How’s that?”

“Stop talking, for Christ’s sake!”

For once, the thief didn’t argue. Niccolò moaned when he was pounded again, scrabbling for purchase on the sweat-soaked sheets. His ass hurt, his cock ached, and he wanted to come so badly it was a physical pressure in his chest. He brought a shaking hand down to his member, pulled on himself hard in time with Volpe’s determined thrusting, let his world tunnel down to the crude joining of their bodies. He grunted when the thickness in his ass left him completely, and he found himself flipped onto his back. Volpe wasted no time sliding back in, hitching Niccolò’s legs around his waist and leaning down to kiss the boy’s panting mouth.

“ _Tesoro._ ” He braced his arms over the young man’s head, dropped his weight down onto his elbows so hips were free to move, grind, fuck. Niccolò was gasping with each deep impalement, his arms wrapped around the older man’s broad shoulders.

“Hn—G-Gilberto—”

They kissed messily, made love to one another’s mouths around desperate moans and gasps for more, always more. Volpe couldn’t resist playing: he changed his pace, changed the sleek lateral thrusts of his hips into long, lingering circles, pulled out entirely once or twice to grind their straining cocks together until Niccolò was all but rutting against him, almost begging to be taken. The boy was beautiful, his cheeks flushed and lips parted, every quiet moan an invitation for a kiss. He wound his fingers tight into Volpe’s hair, knotted his fists at the thief’s nape and pulled until it hurt, keeping his lover close, present.

“I’m—nngh—”

“You’re there?” Volpe slowed his pace, making his thrusts long and deliberate, filling the boy with each unsteady push of his hips.

“I’m close….”

Volpe murmured down at him, bent to kiss him, grabbed the boy’s cock and pulled him even as he fucked back into his warmth. He liked coming first, liked making his lovers crest on his softening cock and watching his seed spill from their bodies, but he wanted this for Niccolò. He touched him where he knew the boy would be sensitive, rubbed the head of his cock almost too hard, listened to the desperate little moans in his ear while Niccolò thrust helplessly against him.

And then the boy came, hot and hard, cock dribbling thick white cum on his abdomen while his ass clenched down on Volpe’s stiffness. The thief shuddered, moving almost against his will, grunting and pushing in deeper even as Niccolò quivered through his high. It was tight, so tight it almost hurt, and Volpe came with a startled shout, spilling inside his lover’s body. They came down together, breathless and soaked in sweat.

“...Fuck.” Niccolò cradled a hand to the back of Volpe’s neck, brought their mouths together for a shaky kiss and bit down on the older man’s lower lip.

“That’s it?” Volpe kissed him again, tasted his tongue. “You were so eloquent before.”

“You’ve fucked every pretty word right out of me.” Niccolò gasped and arched when Volpe’s soft length slid from his body, shivered when hot cum dripped from his ass onto the bed. “I can’t believe you came inside me.”

“I’m sorry—”

“Don’t be. I said it was fucking _unbelievable_. Earth-shattering.” Niccolò lay back, pushing his damp hair off his brow and laughing. “I’ve never come that hard in my life. Damn.”

Volpe smiled, stroked the boy’s cock, rubbed his fingertips through the mess on his stomach. “No regrets, then?”

“Ask me in the morning, when I have to walk.” Niccolò sat up shakily, biting his lip and cautiously cradling Volpe’s face. “Kiss me again.”

“Happily.” The thief did as he was asked, pushed the boy back into the bed and kissed him slow and soft, let him know with every caress of his tongue that it was more than lust between them. “A classic thought experiment. A man wants to sleep with a brilliant, beautiful boy. He can seduce him with sweet words, or challenge him to a bout with swords and grab his ass. Either way they’ll wind up fucking, so—”

“Oh, shut up,” Niccolò said with a snort, pushing Volpe’s face away. “Don’t think this means you’ve won. I might up and leave you tomorrow.”

“But then how will you know what it’s like to be in my ass, hm?” Volpe nipped at the boy’s ear, wrapping an arm around his waist and pulling him close when Niccolò rolled over. “We should clean up.”

“Tomorrow. I don’t give a shit about the mess. And my ass hurts.”

“Get used to that.”

Niccolò punched him. “Fucker.”

“ _Tesoro_.”

The boy sighed and closed his eyes, enjoying the soft kisses Gilberto trailed up and down his neck. Fine. Maybe the thief did win this round. But there was always tomorrow.


	5. On Fear and Wanting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Men are driven by two principal impulses, either by love or by fear.” 
> 
> -The Discourses on Livy, Book III, Chapter XXI: Hannibal and Scipio

“Oh, God. Oh, Christ. Can’t we slow down? Just a little.”

Volpe sighed, tilting his head back to glare up at the clear sky. “No. Not if you want to make Firenze by nightfall.”

“But…” Niccolò shifted on his horse, wincing and electing to stand in the saddle. “Mother of _God_ , how do you deal with it?”

“I don’t,” Volpe said wryly, smiling in answer to the boy’s dark scowl. “Perhaps we should have spent another day in Pisa.”

“No. I want to be rid of that place.”

They could agree on that much, at least. Niccolò groaned again, leaning forward over his horse’s neck in an attempt to get his ass as far away from the hard leather of the saddle as he could manage.

“I think I’m going to die.”

“No, you’re not.”

“I might, though.”

The thief rolled his eyes. “Alright. We’re stopping.”

“What? No, I want to keep—”

“Then stop complaining!”

“It’s your fault to begin with!”

“I told you, you could have me if you wanted, but then you were just begging me for it—”

“I most certainly was not!”

“You were! ‘Oh, Volpe, deeper! More! Stop talking and fuck me!’”

“I did not say that!” Niccolò dropped back into the saddle and kicked Volpe’s leg, then bent forward with a long groan. “Oh, fuck _me_.”

“See? Again!”

“No, I mean it _hurts_.”

Volpe frowned, pulling back on the reins. “Perhaps we should stop. Just for a bit,” he added, when Niccolò opened his mouth to protest. “At least let me ensure you’re not hurt.”

“What?” The boy surveyed him with a frown. “Does that happen?”

“Sometimes. Especially your first time.” Volpe guided his horse to the side of the road and swung himself down from the saddle, offering a hand to the younger man. “Please?”

Niccolò looked miffed, but he climbed down as well, ignoring the proffered hand. They led their horses off the road, tethering them to a bit of lonely fencing. Tuscania’s lovely rolling hills made an ideal setting for a break from their hard ride.

“Remove your hose.”

“What?” Niccolò paused with his water canteen halfway to his mouth. “Right here?”

“No, boy, jog half a league that way and pull them off then. Yes, right here. No one’s around.”

Niccolò looked dubiously at the ground. “But… in the dirt?”

“You see that green bit there? That’s called grass. We like to lie in it and—ouch, alright, don’t hit me, Jesus…”

Scowling, Niccolò lay down and shucked his boots, hesitating briefly before wriggling out of his hose, tugging the hem of his tunic down to cover his nudity. Volpe rolled his eyes but didn’t complain, sitting down beside the boy and sliding a hand between his naked buttocks.

“Ah—what are you—”

“Hush.” Volpe surveyed his hand. No blood, at least. He pulled a fresh bottle of oil from his pocket, slicking two fingers and pressing against Niccolò’s entrance. “Lay on your side.”

“Look, I don’t want—”

“I’m not trying to fuck you,” Volpe said with a sigh. “Let me make sure you’re not torn.”

Niccolò still looked dubious, but he rolled over onto his side and curled his legs up, inhaling sharply when Volpe slid his fingers into the tight young body. The thief murmured down at him, running his free hand through Niccolò’s short crop of hair while he gently pressed against his inner walls. He was certainly no expert, but the boy felt alright—no obvious bleeding or tears. He felt hot, almost unnaturally so, though Volpe suspected this was just an artifact of the intensity of their encounter.

“You’re fine,” he said, removing his fingers when Niccolò winced and cleaning them with water from his canteen while the boy pulled his hose back on. “It nearly always hurts after your first time.”

“Mm.” Niccolò rubbed his lower back, exhaling slowly. “For how long?”

“Give it another day. You’ll be back to your chipper self in no time.”

“Funny.” Niccolò staggered inelegantly to his feet, pressing both hands to his abdomen. “Jesus, it hurts everywhere.”

“Your stomach?”

“I said everywhere. All up in my guts.” The boy paused, face drawn into a tight grimace.

“It shouldn’t be so bad. Perhaps we should—” Volpe jumped back with a startled yelp when Niccolò abruptly leaned forward and vomited, dropping to his knees while he heaved. At a loss, the thief edged forward and patted him on the back, pushing his hair away from his brow.

At length Niccolò regained control, breathing shallowly and wiping his mouth on his sleeve. He was trembling badly, and his skin was hot to the touch. Volpe offered him a fresh canteen, keeping a steadying hand on his back while the boy drank.

“Is—is this—”

“Normal? No. This isn’t from sex.” Volpe unloaded their saddles and tossed out a bedroll, anxiety gnawing at his insides. “You’ve picked up some manner of foul humour. Come here, lie down.”

Niccolò shook his head. “No. I need to get home…” But he was already keeling sideways, forcing Volpe to jump forward and catch him, half carrying and half dragging him onto the makeshift bed.

“Alright,” the thief sighed, easing the boy down and sliding a rolled blanket beneath his head. “Alright, easy there, I’ve got you.” He undid the tight laces of Niccolò’s hose, hoping to relieve the pressure on his abdomen, and covered him with their remaining blanket.

“You don’t think…” Niccolò stopped, struggling for breath, “you don’t think il Lupo…”

“No, not him either. But you were kept in that filthy hole of his; no telling what else he had hiding down there.”

Niccolò shuddered, twisting a hand into the blanket. “Oh, God, it fucking hurts.”

“A sharp pain? Throbbing?”

“Both.” The boy indicated his right side. “It’s worst here—like I’ve been stabbed.”

Volpe frowned, pressed a hand to the boy’s forehead. He was undoubtedly feverish. “Mm. Well, we’re not moving on tonight, in any case. Do you mind if I sleep beside you?”

“Why?”

“We’ve only got the one blanket,” Volpe said, smiling impishly down at him. The boy grumbled and closed his eyes, but didn’t put a fight when the thief slipped in beside him.

“It’s a bit early to be heading off to bed, though.”

“Bah. Never too early for a kip.” Volpe yawned widely, folding his arms behind his head, and started when Niccolò abruptly rolled over to curl into him. “Well, hello.”

“Shut up,” the boy mumbled. “Hurts to lie any other way.”

Volpe smiled, smoothed a hand through the younger man’s hair and closed his eyes. The afternoon sun was bright and warm, and Niccolò’s body was a steady weight against his side. Within minutes, the thief found himself nodding off, slipping into blissful unconsciousness.

It didn’t last. It seemed that only moments had passed when he woke with a start, blinking up in confusion at the bright stars overhead, and several seconds ticked by before he realized why he’d woken up. Niccolò was vomiting again; he’d managed to crawl two or so meters away from the bedroll before heaving into the grass, bringing up bile. It was more violent this time, twisting his body with pain, and Volpe thought his heart might stop to see him struggling and gasping.

“Fuck.” He scrambled upright and hurried to the boy’s side, catching him before he could topple over. “Niccolò—can you hear me?” He took the younger man’s jaw in his hand, shaking him. “Niccolò!”

No response. Niccolò looked worse; his skin had a sickly pallor that made Volpe’s stomach turn over, and he felt hotter than he had that afternoon. Trembling, Volpe gathered the boy in his arms and struggled to his feet, setting him down by the horses and hurrying back to camp to collect their things. It took no small amount of grunting and careful maneuvering to get Niccolò into the saddle. Volpe lashed the reins of both horses together and climbed up behind him, tying the boy against his front with a length of rope.

“Alright,” he murmured, stroking a hand through Niccolò’s hair and looping an arm around his waist. “Alright, let’s get you home.”

He’d just about kill not to ride at night, but he had little choice. He spurred the horses on as much as he dared, keeping Niccolò held securely to his body to keep him from being jostled. The boy rested bonelessly against his chest, his breath soft and shallow, labored. At times he mumbled, quiet, incoherent nothings to which Volpe responded with gentle squeezes and kisses to his brow. He didn’t know what to do beyond assuring the boy that he’d be alright. Or perhaps he was more assuring himself.

Dawn was breaking on the horizon by the time Firenze came into view, and Volpe almost wanted to cry from relief. He rode through the gate, ignored the shouting of the guards, and jerked the horses’ reins east, riding hard for the Palazzo Machiavelli.

It was just as they’d left it—as the horses approached, Volpe even caught sight of Bernardo’s balding head ducking down in his garden. The thief called out to him, pulling back on the reins and guiding the horses straight up the walkway.

“Volpe?” The Machiavelli patriarch headed toward him, frowning as Volpe untied himself from his unconscious passenger and swung down out of the saddle. “What are you—oh, God. What’s happened to him?”

“He’s ill.” Volpe pulled Niccolò down, hefting the boy in his arms. “Call for a doctor, quickly.”

Bernardo nodded, eyes wide and fearful, and shucked his gardening gloves before taking off, hurrying toward the Ponte Vecchio. Volpe carried Niccolò inside, tossing apologies over his shoulder at _Madonna_ Bartolomea’s squawks of surprise and depositing the boy on the couch in the sitting room.

“ _Messer_ Volpe, I really must insist that you—” The tiny woman stopped, her breath catching in her chest. “Is that—Nico? What’s wrong with my boy?”

The thief stepped back from the couch, letting Bartolomea drop to her knees at her son’s side. “I don’t know. He’s sick, but I don’t—”

Bartolomea rounded on him, eyes wide and full of tears. “What did you do?!”

“Nothing!” Volpe shot back, forcing himself not to think of his tryst with her son. A sore ass was one thing, but he’d never known sex to do this to a man. “He became ill on the ride back from Pisa—”

“You were the one who took him to Pisa?!”

Oh, shit. Volpe wisely decided to close his mouth, letting the older woman rail at him even while she fretted over her son, mopping his sweaty brow and smoothing his hair away from his face.

Bernardo returned a short time later with a chubby man in tow, hurrying him into the sitting room and stepping up behind the couch, looking down at his eldest son.

“Is he—is he going to—”

“Now, now, let me see him, first,” the doctor said, hustling Bartolomea to the side and bending over his patient. “Symptoms?”

Several seconds passed before Volpe realized that the Machiavelli parents were staring at him. “Oh. Er. Pain, a great deal of it, and vomiting. Fever. He said the pain was worst in his side—”

“Left? Or right?”

“Um—right.”

The doctor made an affirmative noise. “I know his ailment. An insurgence of humours in a gland located in the guts.”

“Can you cure him?”

“I shall need to operate.”

“Hold on,” Volpe said, overriding Bartolomea’s loud sob, “what gland? Don’t you even know what it’s called? Where it’s located, more specifically?”

The doctor looked affronted. “ _Messere_ , I can assure you that I am more than capable of performing exploratory—”

“Exploratory _nothing_ , and don’t call me _Messere_.” Volpe turned to Bernardo, irritated. “I know a better man—someone who knows a great deal about anatomy. He’s brilliant, more than capable of performing the procedure, if one is needed. Let me call on him.”

Bernardo seemed to hesitate, glancing down at Niccolò’s pale face, and nodded. “Yes. Get him.”

And that was what brought Leonardo da Vinci, grinning and bright-eyed, to the Machiavelli estate for the very first time. They were greeted by quite the crowd; Volpe had forgotten that there was a higher branch of the Machiavelli family, and found himself fighting to make way for Leonardo amongst throngs of concerned cousins and extended relations. Feeling claustrophobic, he had half a mind to throw the brilliant young man into the sitting room and be done with the whole affair, but he couldn’t bring himself to leave Niccolò. Not yet, at least.

“Excuse me, excuse me,” Leonardo said cheerfully, winding his way through the solemn crowd in the sitting room and crouching down beside Niccolò. “How long has he been unconscious?”

“Several hours now—since very early this morning.” Volpe hovered uncomfortably near Niccolò’s head. “He vomited and complained of—”

“A pain in his right side?” Leonardo had already hiked up Niccolò’s shirt and was exploring his abdomen with curious fingertips, palpating gently. “Yes? This area is swollen. The affected organ is called the appendix—I learned from a friend in France that it’s a common malady, actually.”

“You can help him, then?” Bernardo asked anxiously, busying himself with stroking Niccolò’s hair.

“Oh, yes. I’ve performed the operation on dozens of cada—patients,” Leonardo said. If anyone besides Volpe noticed his stumble, they didn’t pay it any heed. “I have a very small surgery in my studio where I can operate. Bring him at once. I’ll go ahead and prepare it.” And he departed with a winsome smile, looking positively delighted.

-

Volpe learned from Paola, four days later, that Niccolò was awake and seemed to be recovering. The thief thanked her, ignored her look of searching concern, and took his leave of her. Everything in him screamed to go be with the boy, to kiss him and tell him how worried he’d been, but he did not or could not. Would not, perhaps. It didn’t matter. The fear he’d felt when he’d realized just how sick the boy was…

The thief shuddered, pulling his hood down a touch lower and slipping a hand into the pocket of a passing noble, pursing his lips while he examined his prize—a rather handsome pocket watch, engraved with Greek letters. He tucked it into his cape, feeling satisfied, and paused when his fingers brushed another trinket—the silver chain he’d nicked in Pisa, the one he’d intended to give Niccolò.

He slowed to a halt, pulling it out and holding it in the palm of his hand, admiring its gleam in the sunlight. He had never been so scared in his entire life as he had been that dark night on the road, holding Niccolò’s fevered body to his, riding faster and harder than he ever had in escape of pursuers or guards. The fear of losing the boy had been tremendous and paralyzing, crippling. Subjecting himself to it again would border on masochism. No, best to be rid of the young assassin now, before whatever it was that had sprung up between them could grow.

The chain, though, should at least find its way to its intended owner. Volpe wrapped the trinket in paper from a fishmonger and gave it to a courier. He didn’t leave his name. His _tesoro_ was smart enough to guess.

That little endearment stuck around, clung to the insides of his skull. He had never attached to another person so quickly and so deeply. Sex had always been a side activity, a casual dalliance to add some variety to his days and nights. But now he wanted, _wanted_ another human being, wanted a warm body to curl up to at night, wanted that smirking face to be there to greet him in the morning. He wanted a lover, and he wanted it to be Niccolò Machiavelli.

La Volpe spent two weeks in sullen denial. He doubled last month’s bounty, earning praise and reverence from his fellow thieves. Their hideout, the closest thing he’d ever had to a home, had never been so well stocked with food and wine, had never looked so well furnished.

He was balls deep in another man when he saw Niccolò again.

It wasn’t intentional—he hadn’t really been much interested in fucking since his return from Pisa, but there was a new lad among the thieves who had a face as pretty as a girl’s and great, big blue eyes that seemed to constantly follow him with unwavering adoration. At a little prodding from his closest friends, Volpe pulled the boy aside at a party that had gotten particularly wild, and it had taken only a few quiet words and sweet touches before the youth had dropped his hose and bent eagerly over the nearest table. It would have been rude to refuse, so Volpe slicked himself up and made himself comfortable.

After three cautious thrusts, it was clear to him that he would find no satisfaction with this one. The boy was too loud, squealed and squirmed too much. At one point he asked to be hit, and Volpe obliged him with no sense of thrill, leaving an angry red mark on the boy’s ass.

Just as he was considering calling it a job poorly done, a thief ran into the room, looking a little breathless, to inform him that an assassin was there to call on him. He was pushed aside even as he spoke, and a tall form clad in white assassins’ robes took his place. The hood covered the face, but Volpe recognized the build, the wiry frame and slender hips, the legs that went on into eternity.

“This is yours.”

The silver chain was pulled from the robes and tossed onto the floor, and the assassin turned and left, long strides carrying him from the hideout. Volpe stared in shock at the glittering necklace, his heart hammering, torn. He was afraid, so very afraid, of the longing in his heart. He was terrified—terrified—of the sweet boy he’d romanced in Pisa. Terrified of what that boy might do to him.

But he adored him. Wanted him, and not just in body. He wanted that mind and those fleeting smiles. Volpe found himself caught two great warring emotions, but it couldn’t be more obvious which he must choose.

He separated himself from the boy spread beneath him, hurriedly tucked himself into his hose and grabbed up the chain before sprinting from the hideout. The assassin was nowhere to be seen, at least not on the street. Volpe took to the rooftops, scanning, saw a flash of white jumping down the side of a building and gave chase.

It took mere minutes to catch his quarry. He followed the assassin into an alley, closed the distance between them and caught his wrist, tightened his grip on the bracer so the hidden blade couldn’t be deployed, and threw the other man up against the nearest wall.

“Stop running,” he murmured, and leaned in, kissed the assassin hard. Niccolò opened his mouth with a quiet groan, his hood sliding back and pooling at his neck as he was pushed against unyielding stone, pinned by Volpe’s weight.

“You’re the one running,” he said, panting around slick kisses, silenced when his mouth was captured again.

“I know.” Volpe drew back long enough to breathe, cupping Niccolò’s face in his hands and brushing his thumbs along softly swollen lips. “Are you well?”

“I’ve had my appendix cut out.”

“So I heard.”

They kissed again, slower this time, more gently. A few passing courtesans stopped to gawk and giggle, but the entwined couple paid them no heed. Volpe familiarized himself with the sleek angles of the young body pressed against his, smiled and dropped a hand to Niccolò’s ass, squeezed him hard.

“Ah. There’s my boy.”

“Since when am I your boy?” His words were sharp, but Niccolò was winding his arms around Volpe’s neck, pulling him close for another long, lingering kiss, tangling their tongues, savoring the intimacy. “Mm. What the hell was… what the hell did I just see back there?”

“My pathetic attempt at forgetting you.”

Niccolò frowned, pushing back Volpe’s hood so he could see him properly. “Why would you try to forget me?”

“Because I’m frightened of you, obviously.” Volpe rested his head against the younger man’s shoulder with a low sigh. “Because I want you so badly.”

“You frighten me, too, for what it’s worth.”

“So which is it?” Volpe asked, pouting, his thumbs tracing idle circles along the boy’s narrow hips. “Am I to fear you or love you?”

“Hm. It cannot be both?” Niccolò smiled into a warm kiss, grinding himself against Volpe’s body when it turned rough and needy. “Gilberto. I’m going to Venezia.”

Volpe nodded, running his fingers along Niccolò’s neck to touch the iconic hood of his robes. “I gathered as much.”

“I want you to come with me.”

The thief frowned, holding the boy close, running his fingers through the dark, short strands of hair. “It will be dangerous. Are you sure you’re well enough?”

“It matters not. Both prophet and Apple will be in Venezia shortly, and I must be there to greet them.”

“Why? The Auditore have brought the brotherhood to new heights. Surely they can look after it.”

“No.” Niccolò’s voice was quiet and sure. “They have need of me. My mind. Ezio may have the fabled sight, but I see things he cannot.” The young man looked up at the thief. “Come with me. Fight with me. Whatever it is that we have between us…” He hesitated, taking Volpe’s face in his hands and pulling him closer. “Don’t let it die.”

Volpe closed his eyes, let their foreheads touch. “I missed you, _tesoro_. Is it possible to miss so much a man of whom I know so little?”

“You can know me, if that’s what you want.”

“You know it is.” Volpe kissed him, purring quietly. “I’ve wanted to know you since I first grabbed your ass.”

“A little before that, I should think, as the want of knowing surely prompted the grabbing of ass,” Niccolò snorted.

Volpe laughed, pulled the boy close and held him, contented with this gentleness. The answer to the want pooling in his belly would come later, surely.

“Perhaps. Very well, Machiavelli. I’ll go with you. If only to watch you and Ezio at one another’s throats.”

“Well, you’re an aggravation to us both, it would seem. That’s one thing in common—I’m sure we’ll get along just fine.” Niccolò pulled the older man closer, dipping his head to whisper in his ear. “Now—I believe you promised that I could fuck you one.”

Volpe grinned, pressed his mouth to the young assassin’s with open want, kissing him breathless before replying in a rough whisper. “That can be arranged _, tesoro_. I am, after all, a man of my word.”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter forthcoming. Volpe and Niccolò finally make it to Venezia, have some more sex, and whatever happened to that idiot Francesco?


	6. On Endings and Beginnings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "I ought to tell you, as you did me, how this love began, how Love ensnared me with his nets, where he spread them, and what they were like; you would realize that, spread among the flowers, these were nets of gold woven by Venus, so soft and gentle that even though an insensitive heart could have severed them, nevertheless I declined to do so."
> 
> -Letter from Niccolò Machiavelli to Francesco Vettori, 1514

“Promise me you’ll write?”

“You know I will.”

“And be _safe_ , for the love of God. Be _careful_.”

“I will.”

“Promise!”

“Mama, I _promise_.” Niccolò sighed and allowed himself to be pulled back into another crushing hug, patting his mother’s back. “I’ll come home soon.”

“You had better.” _Madonna_ Bartolomea stepped back, sniffling and wiping her leaking eyes. “Volpe, you take care of my boy, do you understand?”

“Like he was my own,” Volpe replied, answering Niccolò’s scowl with a gentle smile. He stood a respectable distance away from the younger man, but there was no mistaking the want in his gaze, the tenderness. Niccolò looked away, afraid the flushing of his cheeks would give them away, but his family, gathered on the front step of their house to see him off, seemed not to notice.

Primavera stepped forward, standing on tiptoe to kiss her brother’s cheek. “Don’t get into too much trouble, Nico.” She cupped his face in her hands, smiling up at him. “And thank you. For… you know.”

“Write me if anything else happens,” he said quietly, tucking her hair behind her ears and pinching her cheek. “I’m serious. Give me a few days, and then I’ll have some very dangerous new friends.”

“Duly noted.” Primavera turned around, beckoning to the little boy hovering behind his grandmother’s knees. “Gio, come here. Say goodbye to your uncle.”

Giovanni, all of three years old, toddled forward and let himself be picked up, sniffling. “Bye.”

“Bye.” Niccolò squeezed the child close, memorizing the texture of his soft curls, the warmth of his little cheeks. “Look after your mama for me, hm? And work hard in school. I’ll send you books from Roma.” He closed his eyes, struggling against the painful constriction in his chest. What he wouldn’t give to see the child grow into a young man, to be there for him, to help raise the boy he loved as his own son. “I’ll see you soon, Gio. Don’t forget me.”

He let himself hold on a moment longer before setting his little nephew down on his feet. Totto was next, shuffling forward and allowing his older brother to hug him.

“Don’t be too much of a pest, Totto.”

“I won’t,” the boy huffed, scowling, but his arms went around his brother’s waist. “Come home.”

“I will.”

And then it was Margherita, looking much less tearful than Primavera, almost excited.

“Bring me back something from Venezia,” she said, the moment she was finished kissing his cheeks. “Something pretty.”

“Unbelievable, sis…” Niccolò ruffled her hair, grinning when he earned a sharp jab to his shoulder in return. Hardly touching, but he didn’t expect anything less from Margherita.

His father was a different story. Bernardo stepped forward, embraced his son tightly. “I’m proud of you,” the Machiavelli patriarch said, his voice gruff and tense. He wasn’t good with goodbyes, and never had been. “We’ll be here, waiting for you. Come home safe, you hear?”

Niccolò swallowed around the constriction in his throat. There was so much he wanted to say, so much he needed his father to know, but he didn’t know where to begin. “Yes, sir.”

Bernardo grunted and kissed his brow, clapping him on the shoulders and looking him up and down. “Have everything you need? Maps, food—have you got fresh water?”

“Plenty,” Volpe said, indicating his saddle bags. “Thank you, again, for the horses.”

Bernardo waved him off, shaking his head. “Just make sure they’re well tended. Niccolò, sell one when you get to Venezia—it can’t hurt to have a little extra money.”

“I’ll send back what I can—”

“Nonsense, boy. Keep your earnings. They’re yours, after all.”

Niccolò didn’t argue with him, but Venezia was almost overburdened with stolen Borgia gold. He was tired of seeing his sisters in patched dresses and Giovanni in tattered boots. The assassin order would prove to be nothing if not lucrative, of that he was sure.

His mother kissed him twice more before she let him hoist himself up into the saddle. Niccolò took a last look at the Palazzo Machiavelli—where he’d grown up, where he’d learned to read and write, where he and Totto had fought and played, where little Giovanni had been born, where he and Biagio had passed countless careless nights with a bottle of wine, where Mama had taught him all he knew about decency, and Papa all he knew about debauchery—and smiled.

He turned his horse toward the southmost gate, toward the Tuscan countryside, toward Venezia, and looked back to give his family a last wave.

“So long.”

 

-

 

“Are you alright?”

“Stop asking me that. I’m fine.”

Volpe looked up from his bowl, frowning at the young man sitting across from him. Niccolò’s gaze remained stubbornly downcast, and no amount of small talk from Volpe had prompted more than a few words from the young man, leaving them with an awkward silence broken only by the soft crackling of their fire and the occasional nickering of the horses.

The thief stuck his tongue in his cheek, mulling over his options, and brightened when a sudden idea struck him. He got to his feet, ignored Niccolò’s wary eyes following him, and circled behind the young man, pulling the silver chain from his pocket and looping it around Niccolò’s neck.

“There.” He straightened, smiling when Niccolò looked down at the trinket in confusion. “I know it’s a little silly, but I did get it for you, you know.”

“You mean you stole it.”

“It’s the thought that counts, right?”

Niccolò sighed and rolled his eyes. “Right.” He tucked the chain beneath his shirt, tilting his head back to look up at the thief. “Thank you.”

“You’re not going to throw it at me again?”

“Not unless you start being a childish shitwit again.”

Volpe smiled and dropped to his knees, taking the younger man’s face in his hands. “You’re so beautiful.”

“So you’ve said. Come up with a new compliment. Or a synonym for ‘beautiful,’ at least.”

“Ravishing? Enchanting? How about effervescent?”

Niccolò raised his eyebrows. “Not bad. How long did it take you to learn that last one?”

“I scoured your library,” Volpe admitted. Unable to resist, he leaned forward, stealing a soft, slow kiss, savoring their newfound intimacy. Niccolò mumbled against his mouth and pulled him closer, moaning into the caress of Volpe’s tongue and fumbling with the laces of his shirt.

“Want you…”

Volpe broke away with a chuckle. “Right here? In the dirt?”

“See that green bit over there? It’s called grass…”

The thief smirked and nipped the boy’s bottom lip. “Watch it, lad. The fact that I’ve had you in bed won’t stop me from tossing you over my knee.”

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you.” Niccolò slid a hand into Volpe’s hose, grasping his hardening length and grinning when he was pushed away. “You have a dominance fetish, don’t you?”

“I don’t even know what that means.” Volpe pushed the boy onto his back, straddled Niccolò’s hips and lowered his mouth to the vulnerable throat. “Stop talking.”

“Can I take you tonight?” Niccolò pushed Volpe’s hood back, tangling his hands in the mane of dark hair.

Volpe quirked an eyebrow upward. “You think you’re ready?”

“I don’t know.” Niccolò bit his lower lip, distracting himself with Volpe’s hair. “I worry I’m not doing enough to satisfy you.”

The thief smiled and pulled him close, kissing his new lover soundly. “I have a secret to tell you.”

“Oh?”

“You’re the first man I’ve ever slept with more than twice.”

Niccolò drew back, surprised. “What? Really?”

“Really.” Volpe pushed the boy’s hair from his forehead, planting soft kisses along his brow. “I take issue with attachment.”

“Not anymore, though?”

“Not with you.”

Niccolò’s mouth creased into a frown. “Should I be worried, then? That I’ll wake one day and find you’ve left?”

“No. I’m problematic, not discourteous.”

“That’s debatable…” Niccolò closed his eyes when Volpe silenced him with a slow kiss. Well, he was problematic, too. At least they were forging ahead under full disclosure.

Gilberto made love to him, slow and unhurried, coupling for the sake of intimacy, not satisfaction. Niccolò clung to him, let himself be taken, let the world tunnel down to nothing more than the joining of their bodies. It hurt, his body unstretched, but it was good. He saw white when he came.

“Niccolò.” Volpe rested his forehead against his lover’s, brushing kisses along his swollen lips. “Niccolò…”

The boy wrapped his arms around the thief’s neck, arched up against him and bit his lip when Volpe came inside him. He tilted his head back, gazed up at the stars while biting kisses fell against his throat. The night was warm, quiet, the touches on his body were fire, all sensual heat. He was scared. Their lovemaking lit fear in him like nothing he’d ever felt. But excitement coupled with the fear in his veins, made his breath quicken and his heart pound.

He was going to Venezia. Volpe was coming with him. He was an assassin now, a soldier of ideals. _We fight in the dark to serve the light. Si guarda al fine. One looks to the end._ He let his eyes fall closed, gave himself over to sensation, to feeling. He was torn with emotion, at war with himself, a slave to either love or fear, he couldn’t tell which.

Probably both.


End file.
